


Immersion

by DearSherlock



Series: Sherlock - Adriane Woodford [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Coercion, F/M, Het, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSherlock/pseuds/DearSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I require you to accompany me on a case. John has regretfully declined,” Sherlock says.</p>
<p>I change my mind. This really doesn’t sound good. Vaguely I ask, to the room in general, “Why?”</p>
<p>John snorts. “Because I refuse to dress up in black latex like some gay porn icon to spend the night at an S&M dive, regardless of how crucial it might be to solving a murder case.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK no apologies for this one. I knew I said she was retired but this idea so firmly wedged itself in my head that it had to either be written down or drive me mad. So there.
> 
> I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

“Adriane.”

Sherlock’s greeting is curt, formal, as I step into the lounge. John is at the desk and gives me a much warmer welcome. “Hi Adri, how are you? Cup of tea?”

I look at Sherlock, not sure whether tea was part of this evening’s plan. He’s on the sofa, parts of a dossier spread across the coffee table, focused on whatever it is he is studying. He looks gorgeous as always. Other than his verbal acknowledgement he has given no indication that he’s registered my presence. I say yes, please, and follow John into the kitchen.

Maybe he has a better idea of why I’m here tonight, because so far this has been a strange one. Sherlock’s text arrived three days ago telling me to be here on Friday and be rested. Other than that I have had no further communications. “Any idea why I’m here?”

John hesitates a moment before answering. “Ehm, yes, I do, but I’m sure Sherlock will explain. I’m not sure you’ll be too impressed with this one, Adri.”

 _Nothing new there_ , I think. So far none of Sherlock’s experiments could have been classed as enjoyable, although there have been points of light in the weirdness and I have found out an awful lot about myself in the process, and still am. With a slight shudder I think back to a couple of weeks ago, to an electricity experiment where I learned that I _really_ don’t enjoy having parts of my body electrocuted regardless of how low the voltage and despite Sherlock’s constant assurances that it was safe. “You’re not telling me anything new, John.”

He looks at me, concerned as usual. “Maybe. This one’s different. Remember you can say no.” After that he hands me my tea and changes the subject.

After ten minutes or so Sherlock wanders into the kitchen. “Ready for a night out?”

I give him a blank stare, then look back at John. This doesn’t sound too bad. Most likely that is because I’m missing something, or maybe John was winding me up.

“Sherlock, tell Adriane what you’re _really_ planning.” John sounds serious. Not a joke, then.

“I require you to accompany me on a case. John has regretfully declined.”

I change my mind. This really doesn’t sound good. Vaguely I ask, to the room in general, “Why?”

John snorts. “Because I refuse to dress up in black latex like some gay porn icon to spend the night at an S&M dive, regardless of how crucial it might be to solving a murder case.”

The mental image takes a bit of getting over. _“What?”_ I manage after a moment.

Sherlock sighs. “As usual you are over-simplifying the issue, John. Let me explain, Adriane.”

He walks back to the living room and John and I follow. I’m very unsure about where all this is going.

Sherlock has seated himself on the sofa again and pulls a few photographs from the dossier. “You don’t need to see all of it, but these will give you an indication what we’re dealing with.”

He passes the photographs to me. John just grunts and walks over to the sofa to sit down next to Sherlock. It’s clear he’s seen these before and has no wish to relive the experience. I look at the top photograph cautiously.

The first thing I notice is that there’s a lot of blood. The next thing is the victim herself. It’s hard to guess her age from the picture, but what stands out is the meticulous way in which she was bound in leather cuffs, rope and a ball gag before she was killed.

I’ve seen enough; the image makes me feel sick. I pass the photographs back to Sherlock, who briefly raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He puts the pictures back in the dossier.

“Elizabeth O’Connor, known as Lizzie to her friends, twenty-three, to all intents and purposes single. Brutally murdered about three months ago by an unknown perpetrator. Although the crime was made to look like a BDSM scene gone wrong, it wasn’t. It was vicious, and it was premeditated. However it is clear that the killer knew his stuff.”

I look down at Sherlock. “Three _months_?”

He sighs. “Yes. Initially the police thought they could deal with this one. She was a well-known figure on the local fetish scene, frequenting one club in particular. Unfortunately they barged in and started interrogating people left, right and centre. As you will be aware it is a community that looks after its own and has a healthy suspicion of the police. Not surprisingly they got nowhere.”

John clears his throat. “Sherlock, they didn’t really _barge in_ as such. It was a covert operation. They tried to infiltrate.”

“As covert as that lot will ever get,” Sherlock says with derision. “All they did was waste a lot of time and get these people’s back up. It’s only made it harder to get near anyone.”

Sherlock stands up and walks over to me. “I’ve done a lot of groundwork in the last few weeks. While I have managed to establish a presence and gain some trust there, I’m afraid I will not be able to break through completely unless I show myself to be an active member of the community.” He pauses and looks at me intently. “For which I require a submissive partner. Given John’s flat refusal, Adriane, the obvious choice is you.”

I have to be honest, I kind of saw this coming in the last few minutes, but I’m extremely uncomfortable about the prospect. I don’t do this stuff in public and never have done. I don’t even strictly do this stuff in private anymore, unless you count forensic experimentation as a BDSM activity.

“Ehm…,” I say. “I’m not –“

Sherlock steps closer, eyes fixed on me. He cuts in, his tone of voice ever so slightly sarcastic, “submissive?” He lets it hang a moment, then adds, quietly, “owned?”

Now I’m blushing. I really didn’t want John to hear that. Quickly I say, “No. Brave enough.” I’m hoping that Sherlock’s comment will go unnoticed.

The room goes quiet. John is sitting on the sofa, eyes narrowed, looking at Sherlock and me. I feel like running out of the door, now, but I guess I wouldn’t be back again. Instead I stay rooted to the spot wondering where this is going to go.

“Sherlock, you can’t own somebody.” John’s words are quiet, but there is all the promise of a fight in them.

I close my eyes briefly, wishing I could vanish. When I open them again Sherlock is reaching over to my throat, touching the silver chain. “On the contrary, I find it is working quite well for me.” He’s looking amused, calm. I find it strangely comforting, his complete lack of self-consciousness. He meets my eyes for a moment. I’m sure he can tell I am dying of embarrassment.

“For your information,” John says, openly angry now, “slavery was outlawed in the British Empire in the eighteen-thirties or thereabout. You’re two-hundred years out of date.”

Sherlock considers this only a moment. “And yet, all across the country, thousands of people willingly pass themselves over to others for general or specific use every day, John. For an hour. For the weekend. For a year. For a lifetime. Because it gives them something they need.”

John shakes his head. “Nobody needs to be _owned by anyone_ , Sherlock.” I’ve noticed he is pointedly not looking at me, not drawing me into the discussion. I’m grateful, because I wouldn’t know what to say. He adds, “You could just marry her.”

Now Sherlock looks a bit taken aback. “Why would I marry her? I don’t lo-“

“Sherlock!” John looks absolutely horrified. “Yes, fine, thank you. You don’t have to say it.” Then, to me, “Sorry, Adri.”

I'm reeling. I don’t know how we got into this discussion, but I want out. Mostly I’m trying not to look too upset.

John sighs, sits back and runs his hands through his hair. He looks up at Sherlock resigned. “So how does this work?”

“In the same way it always has,” Sherlock says. “There is no change to the situation, John. I have access to Adriane’s services as before. She is free to carry on her daily life as she chooses unless it affects me, in which case I want to know. The only difference is that Adriane is clear on where she stands and what I expect of her.” When John clearly remains unconvinced, he adds, “John, it is a voluntary arrangement. It can be broken off by either party without consequences. Although it is highly unlikely it could be renegotiated.”

John stares at Sherlock for a long time, looking for the exact meaning behind the words, trying to find the catch. Then he briefly glances at me and says, “You’re both bonkers.”

Sherlock gives him a dismissive smirk. “Maybe. I’ll leave it to Adriane to explain what made me decide to go down this route if she hasn’t already done so. But not right now.” Then he looks at me. “Time to get changed.”

I haven’t quite caught up with what he’s just said. The prospect of having to explain to John what happened with that woman has me panicking. Sherlock is not giving me time to think, however. As I look at him he points to his bedroom. “There are some things in there for you. Put them on please.”

In a bit of a daze I walk through the kitchen to his room, only realising that I haven’t actually agreed to any of this when I see the clothes that are spread out on the bed. There isn’t an awful lot of material, and what there is is shiny and black. “PVC,” Sherlock says from right behind me. I manage not to jump, but only just. “Not quite as laborious as latex.”

I turn round, refusing to move any further into his room, and look up at him. “No. I’m not doing this.” It really is a step, several steps, too far. I am no way prepared for this, I have no idea what he’s planning or what is expected of me and I’m feeling way out of my depth.

Sherlock regards me a moment, head tilted back, entirely unperturbed. Then he says, quietly, “If I may remind you that I have a favour outstanding. I am calling it in for this case.”

I remember the promise, _at any time, for any purpose_. It takes me a moment to get to grips with the inevitability of it. I briefly consider pleading with him, but one look at his face tells me that there is no point. I might as well try to reason with a stone wall. There really is no way out.

Something must have shown in my stance or my face, because he says, “Good. Now get changed.” He turns me around by my shoulders and gives me a little push into the room.

It doesn’t take long. The corset takes a bit of doing but Sherlock laces up the front for me. He seems to be enjoying himself; there’s a glint in his eye that I can’t really appreciate. When he’s finished with the corset he leans over and whispers, “You should be thankful I didn’t choose a cupless one. There were plenty of those to choose from.”

I swear I’ve gone bright red all over. To hide my embarrassment I put on the non-existent thong and the lace top tights. Sherlock is just watching, thoroughly amused. I try to ignore him but it’s impossible, and I am steadily getting angry. As I pull on the shiny black shoes I say, “I’m starting to think you’re just doing this to embarrass me.”

“No,” he says calmly. “But I do find you current predicament entertaining. You are acting as if I am going to throw you to the wolves.”

I look at him, not sure what he’s getting at.

“Adriane, we are going for a night out. We are going to have a look around this place, have a drink and talk to a few people. I’ve already met them. My guess is you might like some of them. I can guarantee you that nobody will do anything inappropriate to you. You are quite safe.”

I frown. “You’re awfully sure about that. I’m practically dressed as a porn star.”

“Hm,” he says. “Not quite. You won’t be the least dressed person there tonight by a very long way. Besides, you are at all times under my protection, which I intend to advertise.”

He fishes something from his pocket. It’s a black leather collar.

I stare at him in some awe as it strikes me again how very good he is at playing this game. Had that been on the bed with the outfit, I have no doubt I would have done a proper u-turn and walked out the door once and for all. Now he’s turned the situation round in such a way that I actually _want_ to wear the thing.

Sherlock crosses the room to fasten the collar around my neck. I’m lost for words for the moment, feeling totally outmanoeuvred. I wonder how many steps ahead he really is, what else I am going to do tonight which is already premeditated. Although there is comfort in letting it all go, I am still scared. I’m also trying to ignore my very definite arousal although Sherlock’s very close proximity is making that hard.

“Done,” he says, stepping back and looking me over. “You’ll blend in.”

I look at him, wondering what he’s organised for himself. To be honest he looks stunning in his usual sharp suit, the black shirt really setting off his pale complexion, but it’s not really what I’d expect anyone to wear to a fetish club. “And what are you going to wear?”

Sherlock just smiles. “I’m ready to go.” When I scowl with the unfairness of it all he leans over and adds in a conspirational whisper, “Dom’s prerogative.” He catches my eye; I can tell he’s absolutely loving this. It doesn’t help with my mood or my arousal.

Before I can say anything else, he points towards the living room. “Go and show John.”

It brings me back down to Earth with a bump. In the relative safety of Sherlock’s bedroom this has been OK, but really it isn’t some kinky game. I don’t relish the thought of John seeing me dressed like this. However, it’s clear there’s no getting away from it. Unless he’s gone out he will see me when we cross the lounge at some point anyway.

I swallow hard and make my way to the living room, taking a few wobbly steps as I get used to the heels on the new shoes. John is sitting at his desk but looks up as I come in. For a moment he just stares at me, then he blinks as his eyebrows make their way up his forehead. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I’m not sure what to make of his reaction.

He closes his mouth and clears his throat nervously. “Ehm, no, no, it’s not. You look, ehm… Yeah. And you’re going out like that?”

It’s funny, he can’t stop staring at me. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was blushing. I don’t think I’ve ever had this effect on anyone and to be honest it’s a little bit unnerving. “Apparently so,” I say. Then I remember that I was wearing a waist-length jacket when I came over. If I go out like this I will be displaying myself to the world at large. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Shit.”

“Language, Adriane.” I hadn’t noticed Sherlock had followed that close behind. I very nearly swear again.

I turn around to him. “Sherlock, I can’t. I didn’t bring…”

My sentence trails off as I notice he is carrying a leather jacket. My size, not his. He passes it to me with a wry smile. “So I anticipated.”

I try it on. It’s a beautiful thing, perfectly tailored and cut just above my knees. To any outside observer I could be wearing normal evening dress, as long as they don’t notice the collar. I suspect it wasn’t cheap.

“The jacket is yours,” Sherlock says. “So is the rest of the outfit should you wish to keep any of it after this case. I very much doubt I will have use for it again.”

I look at him, trying to think of something to say, trying to work out what it means. I briefly wonder if he is trying to bribe me, but quickly realise that if he was he would have started with the jacket, not waited until I had effectively caved in already. In any case it’s not his style. I have to remind myself that this is Sherlock, and he probably really just saw it as a practical solution for an anticipated problem. The fact that the coat is quite easily the most desirable item in my entire wardrobe is neither here nor there to him. I decide to take it at face value. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

He gives me a nod. “Time to go.”

John has recovered his composure by now and sees us out. As Sherlock walks past him he takes hold of his arm. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops, regarding John calmly, saying nothing. John looks at him for a while before continuing, “Just look after her, OK?”

Sherlock stares at John for a long moment before answering. “I have every intention to.”

John still holds his gaze before finally giving him a nod and turning to me. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath but I let it out now. “Take care, Adriane. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

 _I’ll stay here then,_ I think, but I don’t say it. Sherlock sighs audibly. “Thank you, John. I promise she’ll come back in one piece.”

There is a taxi waiting outside. Once more it is clear that this whole night out has been very well organised and it seems Sherlock isn’t leaving anything to chance. It makes me worry about what he might expect of me.

During the ride he silently stares out of the window, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I can’t help but fidget, too worried to settle. After a while he sighs and turns to me. “Spit it out, Adriane.”

“Ehm.” I’m not sure where to start. There are lots of things I am worried about, but a couple of them really stand out. “Ehm… Are you going to… I mean…” I look at the floor of the cab, not sure how to ask this. His steady gaze is unsettling me.

“If you mean am I going to do a public scene with you, the answer is no, I am not. Not tonight.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, although the _not tonight_ has me worried all over again. I didn’t even realise that this was not a one-off.

I'm sure Sherlock can read my concern, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Anything else?”

“Eh… What if there’s somebody there that I know?”

Now he’s looking at me with a slight smile. “In that case I guess you may have found a new friend.”

He studies me a bit more. “You are far too worried about doing something that comes naturally to you, Adriane. There is no requirement on you to be anything but yourself tonight. If you are looking for any new rules, there are none because I don’t see the need for them. I’m not going to make you call me _sir_ or _master_ because frankly I find it corny and those titles are overused by people that little deserve them. The only thing that you are not allowed to mention is that we are there on a case. And if there is any acting required it will be on my part, not yours.”

His confidence is stunning. I wish I could share it.

As he is talking the cab slows to a halt. Since I have been far too preoccupied with my own worries while we were travelling I have no idea what part of London we are in, and I don’t recognise the street when we get out. Sherlock strides off towards the door of an unassuming nightclub but I can’t move quite that fast in these shoes and end up tottering after him, feeling – and no doubt looking – pretty miserable. When he realises I haven’t kept up he stops.

As I catch up to him he gives me an appraising look and raises an eyebrow. “There are a fair few people in there who would give their right arm to be in your position tonight, Adriane,” he says. “I’d like to see a bit of pride, please.”

I look up at him and nod, but I don’t think anything he’s going to say to me is going to make me feel any more self-assured. He looks at me a moment longer and says, “And then there’s this.”

Before I know what is happening he has put his hand under my chin, leaned over and kissed me.

All my worries evaporate as he explodes into my mind. There simply isn’t space for anything else as he kisses me slowly, unhurriedly, managing to convey meaning where in the back of my mind I know there is none. It doesn’t matter, I am lost in the moment anyway. When he finally pulls away after what seems like an age my legs are decidedly unsteady and my breathing is all over the place.

I look up at him. “Sherlock, I lo…”

He shakes his head ever so slightly as he puts a finger to my lips. “Remember it’s only a game.”

I take a deep breath. “Then I love your games.”

For a moment he studies me, his face serious. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Then he says, “Come on.”

We hand our coats in at the door. My head is still in a muddle and if I had considered it properly I would have felt self-conscious, but the lady at the cloakroom never even looks at my outfit. Sherlock leads the way into the club.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it isn’t this. At first glance the place looks like an ordinary night club, busy, with people at the bar chatting in pairs or groups, having a good time. There is music but it’s not overbearing and I notice there isn’t a dance floor. Instead, dotted around the room are some pieces of equipment – a St Andrew’s cross, some benches and what looks like a rack against one of the walls. A lady in a very tight latex outfit is strapping someone of whom I can only see the back to the St. Andrew’s cross. The person in question is wearing nothing but a collar.

But the thing that catches my eye most are the clubbers. If I was expecting a group of the Beautiful People I couldn’t have been more mistaken. It is a mixture of old and young, tall and short, fat and thin and everything in between. There are quite a few people not wearing very much at all, but nobody is staring and no one seems to be in the slightest bit body conscious. There are also quite a few people that are fully dressed, although most of those outfits leave little to the imagination. Some of the hair and makeup is outrageous. A few of the people look decidedly scary, but most of them frankly don’t.

I realise that I _am_ staring when Sherlock comes back to me. “Adriane, I expect you to follow me, not ogle the clientele.”

I come out of my reverie. “Sorry,” I say vaguely.

He’s just staring at me, one eyebrow raised. I realise I’ve missed something. It doesn’t take much thought to work out that although there may not be any _new_ rules that didn’t mean _no rules at all_ and he is going to stand on proper protocol tonight. I can feel myself going red. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

He nods. “Quite so,” and walks off. I follow him in a bit of a daze.

As we walk to the bar a young girl with bright pink hair detaches herself from a group of people and practically bounces over to us. She’s dressed in an elaborate red and black lace corset that clashes spectacularly with her hair, a pair of black fishnet tights and some shiny boots with heels that I could never even contemplate wearing. She’s wearing a shiny pink collar with a little sparkly heart on it. When she gets to us she gives Sherlock the most radiant smile. “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Jennifer.” Sherlock’s greeting is courteous, reserved.

The girl either oesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She rolls her eyes. “It’s Jen, Sherlock. You know that by now. And who’s this?” She looks at me curiously.

“This is Adriane. Adriane, this is Jennifer.”

The girl giggles. “Hi Adriane. I guess that’s Adri, then? Does he ever shorten yours? He’s so formal, isn’t he. Only my mum calls me Jennifer.”

I have to admit, she’s a bit much to take in, but she seems very nice. I smile at her. “Yeah. Most people call me Adri.”

“You know I thought you were making her up, Sherlock. She’s gorgeous. Some of the girls are going to be sorely disappointed. Andy’s at the back, by the way.” She flashes us another big grin, spontaneously kisses Sherlock on the cheek and bounces off.

I have to laugh. “She likes you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. “Yes. The youthful exuberance of a happily collared submissive. I will need to have a word with Andrew.”

We make our way past the bar, to an area somewhat out of the way. There in a corner are a few leather sofas and an old glass coffee table sitting amongst a pile of scatter cushions on the floor. A few people have made themselves comfortable, some on the sofas, some on the floor. Sherlock approaches them as if he owns the place.

As we get to the group a young man looks up. He’s wearing very tight leather trousers and a half-open black shirt, but other than that he looks unassuming. “Sherlock. I was wondering if you’d turn up tonight.”

“Andrew, I believe you may need to see to your submissive. She kissed me.”

The young man grins. “On the cheek I hope. Talk to me again when she starts using her tongue.”

The people on the sofas laugh and Sherlock smiles. He sits down next to Andrew, giving me a nearly imperceptible nod to follow suit. Without knowing what else to do I sit down on a couple of the cushions in front of the sofa next to him, figuring that literally keeping a low profile is the best way to draw as little attention to myself as possible. A couple of the people eye me up curiously but Sherlock doesn’t see fit to make introductions, and I’m not sure of anything so I keep my mouth shut.

Sherlock enters into a quiet conversation with Andrew, which gives me some time to look around the group. Apart from Andrew there’s a middle-aged lady dressed in all leather and buckles, with a pair of thigh-length boots which scream _Domme_. She’s talking to a young man about half her age who is sitting on the floor, looking up at her adoringly. I can’t think anything other than that they look rather sweet. Next to them are two men dressed in a lot of very tight latex, deep in quiet conversation. The way their legs are entwined makes it clear they are a couple, but it is not immediately obvious who the dominant partner is.

Before I have a chance to study anyone else a man in his thirties who seems to be mainly made of blonde curls and tattoos joins the group. He sits down in a solitary armchair at the head of the group and everyone says hello. He greets everyone briefly by name. When he gets to Sherlock he gives me a quick glance over first. I get the distinct impression he’s weighing me up.

“Sherlock. Who’s your friend?”

“Dominic.” Sherlock is as ever formal, a little cautious maybe. It makes me sit up and take note even more than I already was. “I brought Adriane. Adriane, this is Dominic. He runs this little venture.”

I say hi. The man returns me a wide smile. “Most people call me Dom. It’s easier to remember.”

I smile back, not sure what to say. _Here is someone who it would be very silly to judge by appearance_ , is all I can think. However the conversation resumes almost immediately, leaving me to my thoughts once more. Jen bounces over after a few minutes and gives me a radiant smile, then hops onto the sofa and snuggles into Andrew.

My eyes wander to the last member of the little group, a young man on his own who meets my eyes with a face that is full of disdain.

“Hey, detective boy. Your undercover police woman is staring at me.”

The group goes quiet instantly. I fight a sudden urge to grab onto Sherlock’s leg for a bit of moral support. To my surprise he makes the contact himself, subtly shifting his position on the sofa so that his lower leg is now pressing lightly along the entire length of my back. I lean into him a little, worried about what’s going to happen. I find it hard to believe he’s done something as stupid as using his real name here, allowing everyone to find him on the web as easily as I did.

Sherlock lets the silence hang a while, the air thick with tension. Then he says, “As I have explained to you before, Kelvin, I am not here on a case. Do you really think I would use my real name if I were? It is the easiest thing in the world to assume an alias in a place like this. You prove that every time we meet.”

There is a clear challenge there, although it is delivered quietly. Instead of taking Sherlock on the man turns to me. “Yeah, he’s right. It’s because I’m _hot_ , baby.”

I just stare at him, totally tensed up now. I’d like to run away.

Behind me Sherlock is moving. When I look up to see what he’s doing he is putting his wallet back in his inside pocket. Then he passes me a ten pound note, his gaze steadily fixed on the man across from him. “Adriane, go and have a drink with Jennifer. No alcohol. I will see you shortly.”

Jen is quicker than me. She’s on her feet and holding out her hand before I have even begun to move, tension making me clumsy. She pulls me up and we make our way towards the bar quickly. As soon as we are out of earshot she says, “Wow. Kelvin is _way_ out of line. I’m sorry, Adri.”

I look back and she follows my gaze. Sherlock is still sitting motionless, maybe waiting for us to get well away. “What do you think he’s going to do?”

“Not sure,” I say. If I’m being honest I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for Kelvin, but I’m worried that Sherlock may blow the whole case if he shreds him. On the other hand I realise that I have no idea what game he is playing anyway, being so public about his profession.

We get to the bar and I order drinks. “Do you think they’ll have a fight?” Jen is persistent, looking worried.

“No, I don’t think so,” I answer. “It’s not his style. Unless Kelvin goes for him, I suppose.” We are both looking across to the group, trying to gauge what is going on. Sherlock hasn’t moved position, still fixing Kelvin with his stare, but he’s talking now. The other man is looking perplexed, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Jen giggles. “Kelvin looks as if someone’s slapped him.”

I smile. “Sherlock does tend to have that effect on people when he gets going.”

When Sherlock finishes talking Dom gets up and walks over. He gets to us and gives me an evaluating look. I don’t know what he’s searching for, but it makes me feel uncomfortable. “Well,” he says. “That was impressive.”

I give him an awkward look. “What happened?”

“He pretty much took Kelvin apart. I’m not sure how he knew half the stuff he did.” He stops and looks at me again. “He’s very protective of you.”

“Oh,” I say. I didn’t realise the conversation had been about me as well. “What did he say?”

Dom gives me a slight smile. “I’m sure if he wanted you to know he’d have let you stay.”

I feel myself blush, and give myself a reminder that he runs this place, he’s bound to be good at the power games. Suddenly I’m not so sure how much I’m supposed to say to him. While I’m fretting I look over to Sherlock, who very briefly meets my eyes and gives me another tiny nod. _I’ll take that as permission to speak freely, then_ , I think. It seems things at the sofas have gone back to normal again, although Kelvin appears to be sulking.

Jen is pouting. “I would have liked to have heard that. How unfair.”

“It wasn’t pretty, Jen. He’s sharp, isn’t he, Adri.”

It’s a statement, not a question. All I can think is _you have no idea._ “Yes,” I say. “Very.”

“Has he ever done that to you? Take you apart like that?”

It’s my turn to smile now. “He does it regularly. It’s a special skill of his.”

Dom is looking at me again, eyes narrowed, trying to work me out. I get the feeling there is a lot more hanging on this conversation than I thought at first. “And you are OK with this? Most people I know would run a mile. Kelvin is going to take days to recover by the looks of it.“

I look back at him, wondering what he’s trying to get at. I guess he’s wondering whether I’m real, or whether I really am some undercover constable. I decide the honest truth is probably the best. “Sherlock understands me at a level that nobody else ever has. There is a lot of freedom in being with someone like that even if it’s painful at times. In any case he usually has a good enough reason for doing it.”

“Do you live with him?”

I’m not sure it’s an appropriate question. Jen is frowning and I take it she thinks so too. I answer it anyway. “No. I don’t think I could. He never switches off.”

Dom has another good look at me before nodding and moving off. It’s left me a bit shaky but thankfully Jen turns it round immediately. “Jeez. What was all that about? Everyone’s gone mad.”

She drags me to the bar and gets another round of drinks. “Come on, let’s go back.”

We both turn around but before we can move we practically bump into Sherlock who must have come up behind us quietly. Jen startles with a “Waah” and lets go of her drink as she puts her hands to her face. Sherlock catches the glass in a flash before it hits the floor. There is barely a spill.

“Jennifer.” He gives her an elegant little bow as he passes her drink back. Jen just does the big eyes at him, momentarily speechless. Sherlock looks at her intently and smiles at her, a knowing little smile, and she goes a beautiful shade of scarlet. With a little wave of her hand in front of her face she says “fuck,” giggles and quickly walks back to the breakout area where she throws herself onto the sofa next to Andrew.

“I think you made an impression,” I say to Sherlock. He just nods, “Hm.” Then he looks at me a moment, assessing me for something. “Coming back?”

When we get to the sofas everyone apart from Andrew and Jen has gone. Sherlock sits down across from them and I go back where I was, on the floor next to him, out of the line of fire.

“Adri, you’re allowed on the sofas you know.” Jen is looking at me somewhat scandalised. When I say I’m happy where I am, thank you, she climbs down from where she is and settles on the floor herself, between Andrew’s legs.

She chats at me about everything and nothing. It’s hard to keep up with her constant changes of subject, but it makes her easy company. I don’t have to say very much at all. After a while she starts on a series of anecdotes about events at the club, drawing some giggles from Andrew when she retells stories of scenes that didn’t go quite as expected, submissives stuck in awkward situations, dominants getting things spectacularly wrong. Sherlock and Andrew have stopped talking to listen to her as the stories become more and more outrageous. After a particularly saucy tale there is a moment of silence.

“Are you going to give us a demonstration tonight then, Sherlock?” Andrew’s tone of voice is fairly neutral, but there is no mistaking the curiosity in his eyes.

Sherlock considers him a moment, then looks at his watch. “No. I have a private room booked in five minutes.”

I try to hide my considerable shock, not very successfully I think. Jen is grinning at me. “Didn’t see that coming, then?”

“Eh, no,” I manage. I’m glad I can’t see Sherlock at the moment. Just imagining his smug expression is more than enough. I’m aware I’m blushing again.

“And with that,” he says, amusement all too clear in his voice, “I’m afraid we must leave you for the moment.”

He gets up and I scramble to my feet, composure completely gone. “Breathe, Adriane,” he says quietly as he lightly takes my hand and leads me away. I look back over my shoulder to Jen, who gives me a cheerful wink. Andrew is grinning.

We move through the crowd that has now started to form in the main room. I am vaguely aware that there are a few public scenes in progress as we pass by, but to be honest I am far too preoccupied with what Sherlock is planning to take much notice. He’s let go of my hand and is weaving through the people confidently, leaving me to try and keep up with him.

The private room isn’t very big but it has plenty of equipment in it. The first thing Sherlock does is a detailed sweep of the place, examining the walls with great care, occasionally clambering onto the furniture to get higher up. I’m watching him with some confusion, wondering what on Earth he’s up to. When he’s finally satisfied with the results of his search he hops down from the spanking bench he’s standing on and says, “No cameras. Good.”

I hadn’t even considered that. The idea of someone filming what goes on in these places adds a whole new layer to my apprehension. Sherlock walks over to an armchair positioned in a corner and sits down, long legs stretched in front of him, hands folded under his chin. He closes his eyes and appears to drift off.

I’m still standing in the middle of the room wondering what the plan is. When I haven’t moved for five minutes or so Sherlock opens his eyes again and says, “Might as well make yourself comfortable. We will be here a while.”

“Wha-…,” I manage, then, “Oh.” I’m completely thrown. As an afterthought I sit down on the spanking bench.

He’s looking at me with amusement. “Adriane, we are merely here to keep up appearances. I’m not planning anything.”

“Oh,” I say. I’m not sure whether I sound relieved or not.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were disappointed. Remember you were the one who didn’t want to come here tonight,” he says and closes his eyes again.

I look at him. He looks relaxed, at home, self-contained, gorgeous in his confident indifference. Looking around the room at the equipment, the rack of floggers, the neatly coiled rope hung in one corner, I can’t help but wonder what he would do if he did decide to do a scene. I have no doubt it would be an experience not quickly forgotten. My eyes drift back to Sherlock as my thoughts wander into some fairly vivid fantasies. With a start I realise he’s watching me.

“Really.”

I close my eyes as I feel myself blush furiously. When I open them again he is smiling slightly, still watching me. “Adriane, you’re altogether too predictable.”

He gets up in a graceful movement and crosses the room to me. I feel the urge to bolt. Looking up at him I say, “I thought you took no interest.” I’m aware it sounds like an attempt to deflect him.

His smile widens slightly. “Too late,” he says quietly. “Get up.”

I stand up, a bit wobbly, apprehension fighting it out with arousal. He stands back and considers me, then reaches over and very matter-of-factly begins to unlace the corset. “You are right in that I take no interest in sexual activities as they are by their very nature repetitive and limited in their scope. The mind games, however, are a different matter altogether.”

His timing is impeccable. As he finishes the sentence the corset drops to the floor, tights and all, and I am left standing in a puddle of fabric wearing nothing but a collar and thong that covers about half a square inch of me. Sherlock motions for me to step out of the tights and shoes.

When I am done he moves in very close and looks down on me. I’m suddenly acutely aware of how much height I have lost when the shoes came off. “I also have no interest in all _that_ stuff,” he says, waving his hand at the equipment around us but keeping his eyes fixed on me. “While I am sure it has its use in certain situations, I have no need for it when all I require to get into your mind is this,” he points to his head, “and this.” He holds up his right hand and I just stare at it, wondering where this is going. Then he leans in very closely and whispers, “Which I will demonstrate.”

I swallow hard. While arousal may be winning my nerves are jangling. I am familiar and relatively comfortable with Sherlock on a case, who is always factual and to the point. I am much less familiar or comfortable with Sherlock playing games, although he has shown me some of that side of him, and it has invariably left me an emotional wreck. But this is him _showing off_ , for the sole reason that he can, without any cause that I can see other than that he has an hour or so to spare. Frankly, it terrifies me.

Sherlock is watching me, reading my reactions. “Maybe you should be more careful what you wish for, Adriane,” he says quietly.

I look back at him. His total focus is positively overwhelming and I realise I’m being offered a rare opportunity even if it frightens me. I shake my head. “No.”

Sherlock gives me a lopsided smile. “Good. You didn’t have a choice, anyway.”

Even if he just said it for effect the impact is impressive. I manage to stay upright but my legs have gone terribly wobbly. He hasn’t even touched me and I’m already struggling to keep myself together. Sherlock takes off his jacket, then steps up close to me and lifts his hand again. “Don’t move.”

He moves his fingers within a hair’s breadth of my chest and leaves them there a moment. I can feel the warmth radiating off his hand and am waiting for the contact, but it doesn’t come. After a minute or so he moves his hand downwards and over my breast, then stops again just over my nipple, still not quite touching me. I have to resist an urge to push forward.  

“The game,” he says very quietly, “ends when I touch you.”

I have to suppress a whimper. The way I am feeling this could be a very short-lived session.

He moves around the back of me. “Close your eyes.”

If I thought that without being able to see him I wouldn’t be aware of what he is doing I was mistaken. By now my skin is so sensitised that I am picking up every bit of warmth coming off his hand as he slowly traces it just above my body. He must be standing very close because on top of the warmth of his hand I can feel his body heat against my back, his breath ghosting over the hairs on my neck. I am desperate for him to touch me. It is taking a lot of effort to stay motionless and by now I am emitting a steady stream of small whimpers.

Occasionally he stops his hand above a particularly sensitive spot; along my hipbone crease, over my breast, at the small of my back, but never going any lower. When he moves back up over my breast towards my throat I find myself arching my head backwards, giving him fuller access. It elicits a low chuckle from Sherlock, far too close to my ear. “Good.”

I give a small moan. This is slowly driving me mad. I desperately need him to touch me but I know that would be the end of it, and I don’t want him to stop either. It’s not enough and it’s too much at the same time and it leaves me feeling impossibly, achingly aroused. My skin is physically burning and has become so sensitive that I can feel the slightest shift in the air when Sherlock moves, anticipate the steady trail of his hand, feel his breath even when he moves some way away from me. My whole body is trembling.

“Would you like me to stop?”

He’s moved in front of me again and I open my eyes to look at him. He’s studying me, impassive, the glint in his eye the only indication that he is enjoying this intensely. I find it hard to look at him without completely losing it, so I close my eyes again and shake my head. I swear I can feel his smile.

He continues, once more close to me, but there is a sudden shift in his position. It takes me a moment to work out that he has kneeled in front of me. The warmth of his hand is making its way down now, over my pubic mound, down the inside of my thigh, back up over my buttocks, round again slowly. Most enragingly his face is just in front of my belly and I can feel his breath warm on my skin, driving me to distraction. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

He begins to blow softly on my skin; it’s as close to a touch as he’s come tonight and I lean towards it, trying for more. Still there is no contact. I am moaning with frustration as he moves slowly down, his hand following suit, warmth and featherlight touch focusing very close to my sex.

Suddenly an intense sensation cuts through me, so strong it is very close to painful as he touches my clitoris through the non-existent thong. It takes a fraction of a second to realise that he isn’t using his hand but his lips. Almost instantly I lose all control of my legs, my knees buckle and I sink to the floor. “Fuck.”

When I open my eyes my face is inches away from Sherlock’s. He smiles. “It appears I could even have done without the hand.”

I have never been closer to just jumping him, consequences be damned. My need for release is overwhelming. With effort I restrain myself. “Sherlock, please.”

“No,” he says and stands up. “Time to go.”

He holds out his hand and pulls me up off the floor. I end up far too close to him, legs still unsteady, fighting the impulse to snog him. “Hng. How can this _not_ have an effect on you?”

He eyes me up, amused, then goes and picks the corset off the floor. As he is calmly lacing it back up for me he says, “it’s called self-control, Adriane.” With him that close to me again I’m having far too much trouble keeping my thoughts straight to be able to even comment on that. I notice he is still very careful to avoid any skin contact. “Besides, as I said, I don’t take much of an interest. And having you in a state like this is much more entertaining.”

He straightens up, gives me a final innocent smile and motions to the door. “After you.” I’m caught between the impulse to hit him or to snog him. Knowing that an attempt at either is bound to be futile I scowl and walk out.

We make our way back through the club. My legs are still wobbly, I have no co-ordination and am finding it hard to focus. As a result I am staggering around the place trying to follow Sherlock, bumping into people and finally nearly walking headfirst into a pillar. I am amazed at the speed in which Sherlock is back at my side, grabbing my elbow and steering me in the right direction.

When we finally get to the breakout area I sink into one of the sofas, make my way to a corner and curl up into a ball, drawing my knees up to my chin. I’m still in a muddle, not enough space in my head to talk to anyone, so I keep my eyes firmly fixed upon the floor. Sherlock sits down next to me, carefully keeping his distance so as not to touch.

I don’t take any notice of the conversation that is going on around me. Jen and Andrew don’t seem to be there. Sherlock is also keeping quiet, just listening, observing. I don’t recognise any of the voices and it allows me to sink into my own world, although I am failing to find many coherent thoughts.

After some time my trance-like state is broken by the appearance of a happy face framed in bright pink hair in front of my eyes, sideways. “Good session then?”

I blink. It takes me a moment or two to come back to the here and now. “Eh, yes. Yes.” I’m still having problems focusing.

Jen looks at me curiously, then at Sherlock. “What did you do, Sherlock? Must have been impressive.”

He looks at her, a faint smile playing around his lips. Then he raises an eyebrow and says, casually, quietly, “I never even touched her.”

Her eyes widen. She looks at me for confirmation and I give a half-hearted smirk. There isn’t much point denying it, although this won’t do anything to lessen Sherlock’s self-esteem. Jen looks back at Sherlock with an expression of awe on her face. “Jesus.”

He’s fixing her with a steady smile as Jen’s face turns bright red. I’m wondering what Andrew is making of all this, but when I look at him he’s grinning. I guess he’s feeding off it, maybe thinking of using it as a tease on her later. As I turn back towards Sherlock I swear he is passing Andrew a tiny wink.

Shortly after Andrew takes Jen off. As they disappear into the crowd Sherlock looks at his watch. “Time to go home, I think.”

On our way out we come past Dom, talking to a small group of people at the bar. Sherlock stops. “Thank you for your hospitality tonight, Dominic.”

Dom gives him a curious look before answering. “Coming again?”

“Yes. We’ll be back next week. Adriane has rather enjoyed herself.”

I wasn’t ready to be drawn into this conversation and I also didn’t realise we were returning quite so definitely. All I can do is stare at him. Sherlock returns my stare with a smug smile. It is obvious that he is playing some kind of long game here and that my sanity is the last thing on his agenda.

Dominic just grins. “Good.” It looks for a moment as if he is going to say something else, but then he seems to change his mind. “See you next week.” Sherlock nods and we leave.

The taxi ride back is a very quiet one and it seems to go quickly, although I am finding it hard to keep track of time with my head in a mess. I’m a little surprised when the cab draws up at 221B Baker Street, having fully expected Sherlock to drop me home. I really don’t believe he would change his mind about sleeping with me so easily after what he has said tonight. When we get to the living room I find myself reduced to an awkward silence, not sure what I'm meant to be doing.

Sherlock has hung up his coat but I haven’t even got that far. He comes over and appraises my confusion, then sighs and unbuttons my jacket for me. “You’re staying, Adriane,” he says as he peels it off. Then he adds, “I believe you owe John an explanation.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I require you to accompany me on a case. John has regretfully declined,” Sherlock says.
> 
> I change my mind. This really doesn’t sound good. Vaguely I ask, to the room in general, “Why?”
> 
> John snorts. “Because I refuse to dress up in black latex like some gay porn icon to spend the night at an S&M dive, regardless of how crucial it might be to solving a murder case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

All I can think is _too much_ andI find myself staring blankly at Sherlock. After everything that has happened tonight I do not have the emotional wherewithal to have that conversation with John. Besides, it’s the middle of the night. Besides of that, I’m still dressed like a porn star.

“Sherlock, no.” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

He gives me a quick, humourless smile. “Adriane, yes.”

He turns me round and gives me a little push towards the door to the stairs. When I get there I suppress the impulse to look back. I know what he’s going to look like. It’s clear he’s not going to compromise, and I’m too messed up already without his piercing stare making it any worse. Instead I make a point of closing the door behind me and stop at the bottom of the stairs for a breather.

I only stay for a few seconds. The last thing I want is for Sherlock to come checking up on me, and I’m sure he is monitoring my every move at the moment. As an afterthought I take off the silly shoes and leave them on the floor, then slowly make my way upstairs.

When I get to John’s door I hesitate, wondering whether to knock. In the end I decide that he is bound to be asleep so I open the door quietly and slip inside.

The room is almost completely dark. I can just about make out the shape of the bed near the window and a bulge in the covers indicating John’s sleeping form. He is snoring quietly but other than that there is no sound in the room. I make my way over to the bed, wondering what he is going to say, how to go about waking him up. After a moment’s hesitation I gently shake him by the shoulder.

Before I know what is happening my arm is grabbed in a steel grip and twisted behind my back. I am pushed forward and slammed against the wall, my cheek making heavy contact with the rough wallpaper. John’s breathing is ragged in my ear, his weight pressing me against the wall. I can barely breathe.

“John. John, it’s me. It’s Adri.” I can hardly get the words out. “You’re hurting me.”

Suddenly all the pressure is taken off as John lets go of me and steps back. “Jesus. Jesus Adri, I’m so sorry.”

A light flicks on. I turn round and look at John, who is standing by the bed, shaking. Even by the dim light I can see he is as white as a sheet. He looks at me and passes his hand over his face. “God, Adri. I’m sorry. I didn’t… Jesus.”

He slouches down on the bed, looking at his hands which are still shaking. I sit down next to him. “Afghanistan?”

He nods. “Some things…“ He looks at me, struggling to find the words. “Some things never go away.” He takes another deep breath and swears softly as he exhales.

I take his hand and we sit for a while in silence. He’s slowly calming down, his breathing gradually returning to normal. After some time he says, “Did everything go OK tonight?”

I nod. “Yeah, it was OK.” I hesitate a moment but decide that I would rather have this over with. “Sherlock asked me to come and speak with you, to explain how he...” I’m not sure how to say this. Instead I touch the silver chain, only belatedly remembering the leather collar. “Well, you know, collar and all that.”

John eyes me up curiously, obviously keen for anything to take his mind off things. “Go on then.”

I hesitate before starting, worried that he won’t be quite so happy when I’ve finished. Then I take a deep breath and begin.

Even though I give him a sanitised version of what happened during the kidnapping it is painful to retell the story. I know he’s going to be upset with me and I find myself staring at my hands and the floor while talking, and taking my time to get the words out at the worst bits. When I finish recounting what happened at Jim’s house I look up and meet his eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to work out he is fuming.

“You _knew_ Irene Adler was working for Moriarty. You _told her stuff_. And you _never said_. Jesus.”

I nod, upset, feeling guilty all over again. I manage a tiny, “I’m sorry.”

He glares at me. “Sherlock should have bloody well thrown you out.”

I’m getting close to tears. I’ve been through all this, I thought it was resolved. “Do you think he let it go lightly?”

That makes him stop to think, at least for a moment. “What did he do?”

So I tell him what happened the night Sherlock visited my flat: his anger, the long, painful cross-examination, the ten lashes, the outstanding favour. That the chain reminds me not to do anything quite as stupid as that again. John is quiet for a long time after I finish.

“Did he tell you what happened with Irene Adler?” I didn’t expect that question. John is watching me, not looking quite so angry now, but by no means calmed down. I shake my head. “He just said he wasted a lot of time because of her, and that he had been embarrassed.”

John snorts. “That’s the understatement of the year. That woman very nearly finished his career, and that of his brother. He could have gone to prison over it.”

That takes me aback. “Oh. Jesus.”

We’re quiet for a while as I mentally examine the extent of my fuck-up and John is thinking or watching, I don’t know. Finally I say, “He has a brother?”

John nods. “Yes. Creepy guy. _Very_ high up in government.”

I can’t even say anything to that. “He never said.”

“They don’t get on,” John answers. “I’m surprised he hasn’t paid you a visit or whisked you off to some remote location to question you. He loves doing that.”

“Oh. Really?” I’m aware I’m sounding small. I feel absolutely wretched.

John sighs and takes my hand. “I wasn’t joking when I said you had bitten off far more than you could chew when you first arrived, Adri.”

I nod and look at him. “I wish it had never happened. I’d give anything to be able to go back and change it.”

“It’s done,” he says, shrugging. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

With a shake of my head I say, “I know where I stand now. I’ve been made fully aware of my responsibilities.”

“Yes,” he says. “I can see that. Although he could just have given you a contract of employment or something.”

“Not really his style though, is it.”

John gives a short laugh. “No. That would require paperwork. Much easier to simply claim your soul.” I smile and the tension seems to leave the room. As if on cue the sound of violin music begins to drift up from the living room. I briefly wonder if Sherlock has John’s room bugged.

John is looking at me as if he has only just noticed my outfit. “Ehm… Are you staying?” He’s trying very hard not to sound hopeful and failing terribly. I could desperately do with a hug or any other sort of physical comfort so I say yes, of course. It’s endearing how his eyes light up.

He reaches out and I take his hand, wrapping it around my waist. Then I take his other hand, kiss it and put it on my chest. The feeling of warm touch on my skin, finally, is overwhelming and I give a compulsive shudder. John takes his hand away and looks at me questioningly. “You OK?”

I nod. “Sorry. Sherlock did a complete mind job on me. It’s left me in a bit of a state.”

“Can I ask what he did?”

I give a little laugh. “Nothing. He did nothing, very closely, like _this_ ,” I put my hand close to John’s face, millimetres away, and add, “All over my bare body. For a long time. He didn’t even tie me down. And then we left.”

John just laughs admiringly. “And I bet you were worried about the whips and chains.” He shakes his head. “I’m glad I didn’t agree to any of that.”

He touches my chest again and runs his fingers down to the corset, feeling the PVC, lost in thought for a moment. “I’ve never had anyone who was brave enough to dress in anything quite like this,” he says.

It makes me smile. “It’s all yours,” I say and kiss him.

He kisses me back, fervently, running his fingers over my shoulders and down the corset. It rubs in quite how touch-starved and wound up I have got during the night and the feeling of his hands on my skin is like coming home. He takes off his t-shirt and shorts and kisses me again, this time wandering down my throat and over the bare skin of my chest. Then he pushes me onto my back, gently, eagerly. It is easy to let go, to let him have possession of my body, to not think anything for a while but just give over to the feeling. The non-existent thong proves no barrier at all as he penetrates me, that simple act alone nearly enough to push me over the edge. I moan, burying my face in his chest and holding onto him for dear life.

John begins to move slowly inside me and I nearly lose it. I’m scrabbling around for something to hold onto. There is almost too much sensation to this, my body barely able to contain itself and I’m struggling not to thrash about, feeling out of control. There isn’t a headboard, nothing to grab hold of to steady myself. John is fucking me deeply, occasionally kissing my face, my mouth, my throat. I’m moaning, the noise mingling with the music from Sherlock’s violin which has increased in pitch, the knowledge that he is still observing doing impossible things to my head.

“Hold me down, please,” I say to John as he pauses a moment to look at me. In response he kisses me again, and then I feel his hands on mine, entangling our fingers as he pins them either side of my head. I buck as he shifts his weight forwards and starts fucking me again, holding me down, still kissing me. I can’t move anymore and it gives me a moment of complete calm before the feeling of him inside me eclipses everything and I reach orgasm, moaning into his mouth and struggling against his strong hold. He comes with me, burying himself inside me, his nails digging into the backs of my hands. The music downstairs reaches a crescendo.

The notes of Sherlock’s violin slowly die off as John and I return to the here and now. John stares into the distance a moment, listening. Then he looks at me. “Sherlock. Did he just…”

I nod. “Wasn’t quite done with the mindfuckery, it seems.”

John exhales. “Sheesh. Bastard.” After a quiet moment he kisses me again. “Thank you. That was great.”

I smile at him. “No. Thank you. I needed that.” I don’t add that to me there was something ridiculously intimate about having a personal soundtrack to make love to.

He looks at me with a slight frown, then very gently touches my face where I hit the wall before. “I’m really sorry about that. It looks like it’s going to bruise. I hope it won’t be too bad.”

 

\--ooOoo--

 

The next morning John is up and dressed well before me. I roll over and bury my head under the duvet as he goes downstairs, not ready for the day just yet. It is very quiet after he leaves so after a while I drift off to sleep again.

It is the smell of breakfast that wakes me up the second time. In a moment of boldness I open John’s wardrobe and borrow a t-shirt, rather than going downstairs in that corset. At a guess my real clothes are still on Sherlock’s bedroom floor. I make my way downstairs, wondering what the morning will bring.

John is in the kitchen doing breakfast while Sherlock is behind his microscope studying something. They both look up when I enter the room and John winces when he sees my face. Sherlock regards me calmly for a moment, then turns to John. “You damaged my property.”

John’s face is a picture as it goes through a series of emotions. He starts with humour which changes into disbelief when he checks Sherlock’s face and realises he isn’t joking. Then follows embarrassment which changes via outrage to exasperation. A couple of times it looks like he’s about to say something but then changes his mind. Eventually he just looks at Sherlock straight and says, “I’m sorry. It was an accident.” Then he abandons the cooker and comes over to check my face.

Having not seen a mirror yet I have no idea what the fuss is all about. All I know is that my face is a bit sore where it hit the wall, but from their reactions I guess it isn’t looking good. John looks closely at me for a while, then straightens up and says, “I’m really sorry, Adri. We should have put an ice pack on it last night. I’m afraid it’s a bit late now.”

I walk to the bathroom to check what is going on. Although I am prepared from what has just happened I still get a shock when I look in the mirror. My left cheek is grazed and I am developing what looks like a spectacular black eye on that side. I have no idea how I am going to explain this to anyone.

To take my mind off it I run the bath and go to fetch my clothes. When I come through the kitchen again Sherlock has returned to his microscope while John is watching me with a concerned look on his face. As I walk back into the bathroom he follows me in.

“Are you OK?”

I shrug. “It doesn’t hurt much. I just don’t know what I’m going to say to anyone.”

“I’m sorry.” He looks wretched. Without knowing what else to do I draw him into a hug. “It’s OK. I’ll think of something.”

Breakfast ends up being a muted affair with which Sherlock does not join in. Afterwards I collect my belongings from around the flat and get ready to leave. John looks at me wistfully but doesn’t say anything other than goodbye. Sherlock gets up when I am about to leave and comes over.

“Same time next week. And I expect you to look after _that_.” He nods at my bad eye. Then he gallantly opens the door for me. A little confused I make my way downstairs, totally surprised when he follows me down and wordlessly lets me out the front. I manage a “Bye, Sherlock,” but he just nods and doesn’t say anything. I expect him to close the door as I walk away, but he doesn’t, and I can feel his gaze on my back all the way down Baker Street. When I finally have to turn right I do so with a sigh of relief.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

Nobody at work so much as mentions my black eye until the Wednesday when Phil comes up to me. I haven’t seen much of him of late, but he’s obviously still keeping tabs on me. “Did Sherlock do that?”

After everyone pretending it wasn’t there for so long I’m taken aback by his direct approach. “No. He didn’t.”

Phil looks at me dubiously. “Then what happened?”

I’m not sure I owe him an explanation, but I feel I should say something anyway. “I surprised someone with PTSD. It was a stupid thing to do.”

It’s so close to the truth it’s obvious that I’m not lying. Phil isn’t sure what to say to it and just looks at me for some time before saying, “Oh.” Then he thinks for a bit longer and finishes with, “I hope you’re looking after yourself, Adri.”

_I am honestly trying_ , I think as he walks off. He doesn’t speak to me again that week.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

Friday comes round much quicker than I expected and before I am quite ready for it I find myself knocking on the door of 221B Baker Street. I am let in by Mrs Hudson who shows me upstairs.

Sherlock and John appear to be in the middle of a discussion when I come in. They both stop and look at me as I come through the door and I am struck by the two totally different responses that greet me. John seems genuinely pleased to see me and is almost immediately off his chair to welcome me in. Sherlock, on the other hand, looks me over analytically, registering any number of things I am not aware of but other than that does not acknowledge my entry. I turn to John.

He’s taken my coat and is now looking closely at my face. “That’s gone down a lot. Did you put anything on it?”

“Arnica,” I say. Although the blackness has thankfully gone there are still definite signs of bruising. I’m not sure how this is going to affect Sherlock’s plans.

As John disappears to the kitchen to make tea Sherlock comes over, all dark purple shirt and sardonic elegance. He’s looking at me intently, seriously, and his focus immediately makes me nervous. I’m wondering if I’ve done something wrong. He stops very close to me and says, “You need to get changed.”

I almost laugh. It seems I was getting wound up over nothing. Pointing to the bag that I brought I say, “I took everything with me. I wasn’t comfortable walking around in the dark on my own in that stuff.”

He hasn’t changed his stare. “Fine. You can do it here.”

It takes me a moment to realise he doesn’t mean the flat at large, but the living room. “Oh. But Sherlock…“ I’m looking for a way to ask for a bit of privacy. I don’t understand why he’s doing this but the look he is giving me is entirely uncompromising and I’m finding it hard to get out any words at all. In the end I manage, “John…”

Sherlock raises a mocking eyebrow. “I believe John is altogether familiar with your anatomy, Adriane. I’m sure he _won’t mind._ ” The last words are spoken quietly as he reaches over and efficiently pulls my top over my head.

I’m blushing, feeling self-conscious and worried about what John’s reaction is going to be when he comes back in. It doesn’t prepare me at all for the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on my skin, lightly running his fingers down my front, ending up at the hem of my trousers and deftly undoing the button. Almost simultaneously his other hand makes its way up my back and I can feel him undoing my bra. I gasp and close my eyes instinctively, trying to deal with the sensations. When I open them again John Watson is standing in the doorway of the kitchen with two cups of tea, mouth open, meeting my eyes with a look of complete and utter disbelief.

For a moment it looks as if he is going to drop the mugs altogether but he manages to compose himself, just. He is blushing as he says, “Sh… Sherlock. What are you doing?”

Sherlock meets my eyes briefly, a sly smile playing around his mouth, invisible to John as he takes of my bra. “I am making sure Adriane is appropriately dressed for the evening,” he says, matter-of-factly. Then he runs both his hands down my front, making a quick circle around my nipples with his index fingers, ending up at my trousers. He quickly unzips them and pulls them down briefs and all, then runs his hand from my leg up over my body to my throat as he stands up.

My breath hitches again and I am trying to contain myself, failing. It is hard to control my breathing and I am caught between arousal and embarrassment, and completely unable to even look at Sherlock. I shift my gaze over to John for some help, but he is looking as flustered as I feel and merely draws in a deep breath when our eyes meet. Sherlock walks over to my bag, leaving me standing in the room naked with John still staring at me. I am sure my arousal is painfully visible.

John quickly realises what he’s doing and looks away, raising his eyebrows, then walks over to the coffee table and puts down both the mugs. He is pointedly looking everywhere but at me while Sherlock passes me the thong and I put it on. When I’m done Sherlock gets me to turn around and begins to lace up the corset. I am aware I am now displaying my bare bottom to John in all its glory. Sherlock looks over my shoulder. “You’re being awfully modest, John.”

I can’t see John’s expression but I can have a guess at it when he says, “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Sherlock, but I don’t think it’s funny.”

Sherlock stops briefly what he is doing and looks at him. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.” Then he picks up where he left off, leaving John and me wondering. After a while he finishes with the corset and looks back at John. “I believe the technical term would be _habituation_. And it would be helpful to me if you watched.”

I still can’t see John, but I can hear his bemused, “Oh.” He doesn’t sound at all certain and I find myself vaguely wondering exactly who Sherlock is trying to habituate to what. Sherlock, however, immediately catches my gaze. “You,” he says, “Obviously.” Then he turns me round again.

John is still sitting on the sofa but is now looking at me, cup of tea in hand. He’s trying hard to look calm but even I can tell the whole situation is making him uncomfortable. The set line of his jaw gives him a distinctly military appearance. He meets my eyes a moment but then looks away over my shoulder, presumably at Sherlock.

I haven’t taken much notice of what Sherlock is doing behind me but I now can feel him standing very close by. I’m just wondering what he is up to when I feel his fingertips on my shoulders, moving gently down towards my spine, causing me an involuntary shudder. He gives an amused, “Hm.” Then he says, “Look at John.”

The next moment his lips are on my neck as he kisses me lightly, trailing his fingers over my back as he does so. I gasp and have to make a conscious effort not to close my eyes. On the sofa John is looking very flustered. One of Sherlock’s hands slowly makes its way to my throat and I find myself tilting my head backwards with a “Hng.” He bites me gently on my shoulder then steps back, removing all touch.

I am left in a daze, feeling lost for the moment, my breath coming rapidly. Behind me, Sherlock says, “John, come here.”

John puts down his tea and walks over. He’s still looking flustered, but there is something else in his eyes. When he gets to me he says, “Do you have a safeword?”

I swallow, registering the implication, and nod. He gives me a hard stare and then looks at Sherlock, who says, “Tell me what Adriane looks like, John.”

John studies me a moment and then says, “She looks beautiful, and embarrassed, and very turned on, and a little sad.” Then he steps a bit closer and adds, “And very, _very_ kissable.”

He kisses me, gently, framing my face with his hands. I am about to put my arms around him when Sherlock takes my wrists from behind and pins them at the small of my back with one hand, holding onto my shoulder with the other. With his mouth very close to my ear he whispers, “No. Mine.”

I’m not even sure whether he means John or me, but it doesn’t really matter as my legs turn to jelly and I very nearly sink to the floor. It is only Sherlock’s hold on me that keeps me upright and I whimper into John’s kiss. After a moment John pulls away and looks at me with a glint in his eye. “Well,” he says. “That was different.” Then he walks back to the sofa.

I manage a tiny, “Fuck.” My legs are still unsteady and for the moment I am praying Sherlock will not let go lest I embarrass myself even more by collapsing in a heap. I’m sure both of them can already read perfectly well how much I enjoyed that and I can’t believe how easily Sherlock managed to lead me into it. I’ve gone bright red with the realisation that I would have quite happily done anything if John had decided to take it further.

“Thank you for the proof of concept, John,” Sherlock says behind me as he gently lets go of my wrists. He leaves his hand on my shoulder for a moment as I steady myself and then goes and gets my bag. “Tights and shoes I believe, Adriane.”

I take the bag and give John a last desperate look before bolting for the bathroom and locking the door, Sherlock be damned.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

It takes me a long time to calm down enough to be able to go back to the lounge and even when I do I am not feeling very confident. I’m surprised when John gets up and gives me a big bear hug. “I’m sorry. That was a bit mean.”

I mumble, “You’re meant to be the nice one,” as I bury my face in his shoulder for a moment, breathing in his familiar scent – comforting, calming. I sigh and just stay there, trying to forget that this is only the beginning of the evening.

After a while he lets go of me and looks at my face with a funny little smile. “I thought I was being _very_ nice.” The gentleness in his eyes betrays the fact he knows exactly what I mean. I nod. “You were.”

Sherlock sighs from somewhere near the doorway. “Overly sentimental as always, John.”

I look at him for the first time since I came back into the room. He’s got his coat on already, looking impatient to get going. “Are we done?”

I feel anything but done and would much rather stay here. I’ve noticed John has put a protective hand on my arm. “Sherlock.”

“What.” Sherlock is now starting to sound irritated. He certainly looks it.

John ignores him. “You look after her. And I don’t just mean her body.”

Now Sherlock‘s face goes totally blank. “Then what _do_ you mean?”

Giving him the hard stare, John answers, “I mean you look after her head. This might be difficult for you to understand, Sherlock, but there is such a thing as emotional damage.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Adriane has a safeword.”

John rolls his eyes and turns to me. “Adri, if he does anything that screws your brain more than you are comfortable with, I want you to use it. I don’t care if he doesn’t understand. Promise me that, please.”

I promise, and John finally lets go of me with a little squeeze of his hand. “Good luck.” Sherlock is practically out of the door before I get my coat on.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

During the taxi ride to the club I keep quiet, still trying to get to grips with my own reactions to what Sherlock did. I am lost in thought and it takes me quite a while to realise that he is staring at me, looking a bit guarded. “You are upset with me.”

I look at him, wondering what to say. “No. Not upset. Confused. Maybe upset with myself. I don’t know.”

He seems to be searching for something in my face. “Tell me why you ran off. You were enjoying yourself up to that point.”

It is so hard to explain to him if he genuinely doesn’t understand, I struggle to find a way to say it. “Because it terrifies me how easy it is for you to make me do… “ _highly inappropriate stuff_ , I think. “Anything you feel like,” is what I say in the end.

Sherlock is still looking confused. “But you enjoyed it. That was the experiment.”

I look at him. He is really trying to understand it and it’s endearing in a way. I smile. “Yes, I did. And I think that’s what scared me the most.”

He studies me a moment longer. I don’t know if it makes any sense to him, but he says, “Hm,” and turns to the window again.

I’m beginning to worry that the reason he carried out his experiment was to see how I might react to a public scene. “Sherlock, are you… ” I don’t get very far into my sentence before he answers.

“No. Not tonight.” He’s still looking out of the window.

“Oh.” Now I’m wondering how long he plans to keep doing this for.

Sherlock turns to me. “We are going to keep going, every week, for as long as it takes for Dominic to give me a lead. Please remember we are first and foremost on a murder case.”

I stare at him blankly. “You think Dom knows who killed that girl?”

He is looking at me as if I have said something silly. “I _know_ he does.”

“Oh.” I really don’t know what to say. It makes me wonder why he doesn’t just ask if it is that obvious. Sherlock, however, doesn’t elaborate. While I am still thinking about it the taxi draws up in front of the nightclub. We make our way inside in silence.

Instead of getting drinks or sitting down Sherlock makes his way slowly around the club, taking in some of the scenes in progress. I have no idea of the time but it must be a lot later than when we arrived last week, because the club is full and almost every piece of equipment is occupied. There are small groups of spectators gathered around some of them, watching with interest. I feel a little self-conscious looking at other people’s private experiences like this, but Sherlock observes the way he does with everything; impassive, analytical. I wonder what he thinks.

We pass by a few scenes until Sherlock comes to a stop at one of the St. Andrew’s crosses. I’ve been too distracted by the previous scene-in-progress to have much focus left, still wondering how anyone could enjoy being caned to within an inch of bleeding. I’d feel sorry for the guy if he wasn’t so clearly getting a massive kick out of it. It takes me a moment to gather what is happening at this one.

The man in control of the scene is in his late fifties by the looks of it, grizzled and somewhat overweight. He is dressed only in a pair of black jeans, his bronzed torso unadorned by any tattoos or body jewellery. _Not someone that you would take a lot of notice of when you met them in the street_ , I think, but I have realised by now that looks can be very deceiving in this game. He is completely focused on the lady tied to the cross in front of him. She is around the same age, maybe a little younger, heavily built and wearing nothing at all but some nipple rings on her large breasts.  She looks far away, her darkly made up eyes closed, her breathing deep and steady as the man in front of her slowly strokes her body, whispering unheard things in her ears.

It’s fascinating. From where I am standing he doesn’t look to be doing very much at all, but it is clear that he has captured her mind completely. As I am watching he says something to her, and a shudder runs through her body. Then he takes his hand down, circling it over her thighs for a moment and ending up between her legs, his other hand resting on her torso. He enters her with his fingers, first one or two, slowly fucking her. The woman lets out a low moan as he slips in a third, then very slowly a fourth finger.

By now I am completely drawn into the scene. It is such an erotic thing to see, her complete surrender a thing of beauty and I am getting very aroused just watching. Now the man takes out his hand, bunches up his fingertips into a point and very slowly inserts his fingers and thumb into her. Every so often he stops and whispers something to her, his other hand gently stroking her body. I’m watching with morbid fascination as his entire hand disappears inside her, inch by slow inch, until even his wrist is no longer visible. The woman is now not moving at all anymore, caught in a trance-like state, oblivious to her surroundings and feeling I know not what.

I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be stretched that much. Involuntarily my eyes wander to Sherlock’s hands; I’ve never really appreciated how large they are before and it makes me wonder if it would even fit. As I look up I am shocked to meet his eyes. I didn’t realise that he was watching _me_ rather than the scene and I blush furiously as he raises one eyebrow with a knowing smile which only widens when I shake my head, fully aware that I’m doing the big eyes, unable to help it. Sherlock leans over and quietly says in my ear, “Time to move on, I think.” He runs one long finger gently over my throat down to my chest as he is talking, and it nearly makes my knees buckle. I manage to suppress a gasp as I try to keep myself together. Sherlock just gives me one more amused look and walks off, quickly weaving his way through the other guests.

I catch up with him at the corridor that leads to the private rooms, where he is leaning against the wall looking as if he has been waiting for ages. Without a further word he leads way to the same room he used last week and ushers me in. I’m confused; we haven’t talked to anyone, met anyone, we haven’t even had a drink. It’s not at all clear to me how he is establishing a presence in this place without interacting with any of the people tonight. I’m about to ask him about it when he takes something off the wall and shows it to me. “Know what they are?”

I do, and I find I suddenly can’t focus very well anymore. “Suspension cuffs. Amber, Sherlock.”

He looks at me briefly and nods. “Noted.”

It doesn’t look like that made any difference to his plans. He walks over to the other wall and picks out a length of rope, quickly knotting it to the end of the cuffs. There are a couple of hooks on the ceiling of the room, _of course_ , I think. As I watch Sherlock throws the rope over one of them with a single elegant movement and motions for me to come and stand underneath. I do so with some hesitation, wondering what I’m letting myself in for.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Adriane,” Sherlock says to my unspoken question, holding out his hand. It’s some comfort, but I can’t avoid the memories of what happened the last time he had me in this situation and I feel nervous as I stretch my arms out for him to take. Sherlock quickly slips the cuffs over my wrists, the cool padded leather feeling strangely calming on my skin. He steps back and pulls the rope until I am standing on tiptoe. As he knots the rope back onto the cuffs he makes no effort to keep any distance, brushing against me here and there and finally finishing by running both his hands lightly down my arms, over my throat and shoulders and onto the corset, his face ending up inches from mine, smiling at my obvious arousal. “Fuck.”

“Hm,” he says. “Well see.”

He stands back to study me a moment, then he takes a small thing out of his pocket which unfolds into a black silk scarf. The intention is obvious and by now I am nearly completely indifferent. After all the things that have gone on tonight I just want him to touch me and I don’t really care whatever games that might involve.

Sherlock gives me a last sardonic smile before he ties the scarf over my eyes and everything goes black. For a while nothing else happens; no sound, no touch, no movement. Then I suddenly feel his fingertips on my skin, making their way to the corset and unlacing it. I can’t suppress a shudder of anticipation.

“While we are not dealing with pain tonight,” his voice comes far too close to my ear as the corset makes its way to the floor, “We are here to explore some boundaries. I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”

Before I can think of any answer at all his hands are on my skin again, tracing some slow circles over my body before pulling the thong down my legs and getting me to step out of my shoes. I’m vaguely wondering what boundaries he means as for the moment all I can think is that I want him desperately, and that by now I am so aroused I couldn’t care less what form that takes.

As he stands up Sherlock traces his hands all the way back up my body. With the shoes gone I am stretched out more and the sensation on my skin is overwhelming. I moan quietly, trying not to show how much this is getting to me. Sherlock gives a low chuckle. At the same time there is a knock on the door.

“Ah,” he says, amusement all to clear in his voice. “It appears we have visitors.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I require you to accompany me on a case. John has regretfully declined,” Sherlock says.
> 
> I change my mind. This really doesn’t sound good. Vaguely I ask, to the room in general, “Why?”
> 
> John snorts. “Because I refuse to dress up in black latex like some gay porn icon to spend the night at an S&M dive, regardless of how crucial it might be to solving a murder case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I am dreadfully sorry for how long it took me to write this chapter. It's been a combination of RL taking over and me finding this stuff surprisingly hard to write. But we're finally there. 
> 
> WARNINGS: This chapter could be pretty triggery for anyone who has issues with mind / physical control or edge play. There is also a great heap of smut in it.

There is nothing dignified about my reaction. “ _What?_ No.” I’m struggling to get out of the cuffs. If I had been able to I would have ripped the blindfold from my eyes immediately. As it is I am completely powerless to do anything at all and I end up dangling as before, considering using my safeword. Instead of opening the door Sherlock stays with me, one hand resting lightly on my side in reassurance, without comment. When I give up struggling he says, “Are you done?”

I hesitate a moment, then nod, resigned. He adds, “Anything you would like to say?”

He’s stroking my front now, very subtly, reminding me how amazingly turned on I was only a few moments ago, managing to distract me while I am trying to hold onto my anger. An involuntary shudder runs through my body and it only makes me angrier, the way my body gives in so easily feeling like betrayal. “Yes. Very dark fucking amber.”

The pain as he pinches my nipple brings tears to my eyes and I shout out.

“Language, Adriane. I am trying to be considerate.”

I’m not sure in which reality his actions would class as considerate but I apologise anyway, begrudgingly.

“Quite so,” Sherlock says quietly. “Remember why we are here.”

The knock at the door is repeated and Sherlock’s deep voice fills the small room. “Come in.”

The door opens quietly and I can hear the sound of footsteps, although I can’t tell how many people they belong to. I’m still tensed up, Sherlock’s hand on my skin the only thing that is keeping me from losing it and bailing out altogether. With a click the door closes again. Nobody has said anything so far and I haven’t a clue who is here and what is going on.

Finally Sherlock breaks the silence. “Adriane, say hello to Andrew and Jennifer.”

I nearly giggle with the relief. To be honest I’m not sure what I was expecting but these two I am comfortable with and I say hello in a shaky voice. Once again I have to admire the elegance of Sherlock’s manipulations, the way he is able to effortlessly push all my buttons. “As ever, the worst demons are in your own head,” he whispers before stepping away, paraphrasing my own thoughts.

The next thing I feel are somebody’s lips on mine. For a moment I think it is Sherlock but a very feminine perfume accompanies the kiss. Small hands with long, manicured nails are on my body. “You look gorgeous,” Jen says and kisses me again.

Without thinking very much at all I kiss her back, too relieved still to care, my arousal rushing back. It feels good anyway, and being strung up I really have very little choice. Her hands are so different from Sherlock’s as she explores my body, her fingertips small and soft, her nails scratching gentle trails over my skin. When she brushes over both my nipples at the same time I whimper into the kiss as my body bucks of its own accord.

Jen breaks off the kiss and I’m just wondering what is happening when I feel a second pair of hands on my back. Again I wonder if it is Sherlock at first, but not for long as Andy’s voice follows the touch. “Well, she seems to be enjoying this.”

I realise he’s not talking to Jen but to Sherlock and the thought of Sherlock watching this, analysing the scene, my reactions, is almost too much. I breathe a “Fuck” as Andy runs his hands down my back and over my buttocks while Jen is still stroking my front, slowly teasing my nipples. As Andy’s fingers reach my sex I push back as much as my position allows me, willing his hand to enter me. He chuckles. At the same time both him and Jen stop and move away.

I’m momentarily confused, wondering what the issue is. Then the blindfold is lifted by long fingers and I open my eyes to see Sherlock’s scrutinising gaze. I can’t see Jen or Andy at all from where I’m standing and I’m sure I look completely confused and flustered, as Sherlock smiles and says, “I am merely ascertaining your emotional wellbeing.”

For a moment I’m totally lost for words. I never thought I would hear him say anything like that, but then I remember John’s warning before we left the flat. It still amazes me how much notice Sherlock takes of him. “What… Sherlock, I’m fine.”

He’s frowning at me, but only half seriously. “Are you sure? No urge to run away and hide?” He looks casually up at my cuffed hands. “If you could, that is.”

I’m not certain if he’s actually serious or playing a game. Surely it was blindingly obvious that I was enjoying myself just now. I am half convinced he is just making a point, so I decide to play it cool, as much as I can given the situation. As casually as I can manage I answer, “No, I’m fine.”

He studies me for a fraction of a second. The slight smile that appears around his mouth tells me that he has seen through what I am trying to do almost immediately and I feel myself blush as he says, “Very well.”

The blindfold is lowered and I am once more in the dark. Just as I wonder if challenging Sherlock was stupid I feel his hands on my skin again, his fingers working their way down my front until they are just above my pubic mound. I can feel his breath on the side of my face as he says quietly in my ear, “You won’t mind, then, if I do _this_.”

He runs one finger down between my labia and rubs my clit gently. The sensation is enough for my body to want to double over and I gasp, struggling against the cuffs. As I stagger the few inches backwards that I can I bump into someone standing behind me. A strong arm is wrapped around my middle and Sherlock continues, “Or if Andrew does _this_.”

I moan at the feeling of Andy’s fingers entering me. At this rate I’m not going to last very long. As if on cue Sherlock takes his hand away, but at the same time I feel a warm mouth on one of my nipples, sucking gently. I am bucking against the restraint, my body being overwhelmed by the sensations. Sherlock is still standing nearly against me and now says in my ear, “Not feeling the need to shout any colours at me?”

I’m having trouble thinking through the sensations of Andy slowly sliding his fingers in and out of me and of Jen’s tongue circling around my nipple. Sherlock’s point is obvious and I can only admit defeat, hoping he’ll come off it. It’s not like I have any dignity left anyway. “Green,” I breathe. “Please, Sherlock.”

I can practically feel his superior smile through the blindfold as he says, “Just so,” his hand once more trailing its way down to my clit. When he slides his finger over it it is one sensation too many and I reach orgasm almost immediately, Andy holding onto my waist, burying his fingers deep inside me, Jen gently biting my nipple, adding to the intensity. I am vaguely aware that I am swearing but far beyond care.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

When I come back down after a few minutes nothing much has changed in the room. I was expecting Sherlock to remove the blindfold or untie me, but he seems in no hurry to do either. Although nobody is touching me anymore they are all still very close by. After a moment Sherlock says, dryly, “One.” Jen giggles.

I manage, “Oh.” This evening suddenly looks very different to what I had envisaged. My arms are aching, my legs are like jelly and I want to be let down, but before I have the chance to say anything else I feel Andy moving behind me. There is the unmistakable sound of a condom being applied. All of a sudden I’m not so sure about what we’re doing.

“Sherlock…”

There is no need to say anything else. Sherlock is there again, very close by, breathing over my skin, his hand trailing lightly over my side. “And the difference is…?”

I don’t know how to answer that. I thought it would be obvious. Andy is now stroking my back, placing light kisses all over my shoulders. I’m fighting a losing battle, arousal taking over again. “Hng. Just is. More intimate. Jen.”

Sherlock sighs, presumably at the dreadful grammar. I’m hoping to God he’s not going to get me to try and string a proper sentence together. “Your sudden lack of grammatical skill clearly betrays the frailty of your argument, Adriane” he says, managing to make it sound sexy. I can barely make sense of the words. As if to strengthen his point Jen moves over and kisses me. “But I like to watch Andy having fun.”

I feel her taking my breasts in her hands, running her thumb over my nipples as she kisses me again. At the same time Andy moves behind me, pressing closer, nearly entering me. I suppress a moan, my body responding of its own accord even if my mind is not made up. Then there is Sherlock’s whisper in my ear, gentle, almost inaudible, not meant to be overheard. “OK?”

The thought that he cares enough to check, _really check_ that I am OK, gently reminding me with one word that it is a game we are playing, that there is a point to all this, is enough. My knees nearly buckle as I breathe a _yes_ through Jen’s kiss. As if on cue Andy enters me and I push back as much as I can. The position doesn’t allow him to go very deep and I moan in frustration as he slides himself just in, just out, making me want to push back further, bend over, anything to give him better access. Jen breaks off the kiss and giggles.

“You’re going to have to do something about that, Andy. Poor Adri is going to have a fit.”

Andy laughs. “Easy.” I feel strong hands around my thighs, spreading my legs while lifting me up as he bodily pulls me backwards until I am suspended at an angle. There isn’t much time to think about the strain on my arms as he enters me again, deeply this time, and begins to fuck me with long, slow strokes. Up to now I hadn’t really realised that he’s big, much bigger than anyone else I have been with. He’s taking it slowly, giving me time to get used to him. Even so I’m shouting, my body not sure if it still riding the wave of the previous orgasm or building up to a new one, the sensations almost too much to contain, anxiety about him accidentally hurting me fighting it out with a desire to give in completely.

I can’t tell where Sherlock is but Jen is there, kissing my face, stroking me. “Shhhh, it’s OK. Andy’s good. He won’t hurt you.”

It’s all I need to let it go as my whole body relaxes, letting the moment take over. I gradually lose all sense of time and place, nothing much else existing but the feeling of Andy inside me slowly increasing the rhythm, Jen stroking and kissing my skin. I’m only vaguely aware that she is slowly working her way down until I suddenly feel her kisses on my clit, then her tongue across it. It takes moments before everything resolves into a single moment of pure sensation and I come again, struggling against the restraints and wondering where Sherlock is.

It takes longer this time for everything to come back into focus again. The blindfold drops away from my eyes but I have to blink several times before I can see Sherlock’s face clearly. At the same time I notice that I am standing back on the ground and that my arms are aching much worse than they were before.

Sherlock studies me a moment and I look back at him blankly, beyond care or even comprehension. “Two,” he says with some amusement. There is a loud “Yay!” from the corner, where Andy and Jen are scrunched up in the armchair together, Andy looking sated, Jen grinning. Sherlock gives a smirk.

I’m exhausted and I’m sure it must be showing. “Please, Sherlock. Enough.”

He considers me again, a little closer this time. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. After a while he says, “We’ll see.”

To my relief he doesn’t leave it at that, but undoes the cuffs at my wrists. I’m barely able to stand on my wobbly legs once I am free and Sherlock has to hold onto me until I can keep myself upright again. By this time I nearly have the giggles but Sherlock is serious as always, obviously not finished for the night. It’s sobering although it does make me nervous, as at the moment I’m not sure whether I can cope with any more. All I really want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep.

He walks over to Andy and Jen while I stay where I am, rubbing my wrists and arms, having enough trouble staying upright to want to think about moving for the moment. I watch Sherlock as he just stands in front of the two on the chair for a while before saying, “Adriane, come here.”

I make my way over unsteadily. Andy is looking relaxed, but Jen looks decidedly apprehensive. It’s clear that Sherlock’s steady stare is getting to her, not surprisingly. I’d like to reassure her but I have no idea what he is planning. Suddenly Sherlock turns to me. “I do believe you owe Jennifer a proper thank you, don’t you think?”

And so, with only a few words, he turns everything upside down again. Almost instantly Jen is grinning and I am feeling way out of my depth. Sherlock’s sardonic smile reflects my astonishment.

“What? Oh. Eh, yes.” I stammer, not sure what I am meant to be doing. If he’s expecting me to take the initiative he could be waiting a long time; I still feel spaced out from two massive orgasms and besides I have never done anything with a woman before. An inconvenient memory from the night I was abducted by Jim Moriarty and he passed me over to that woman tries to wheedle its way into my mind but I push it away, telling myself that didn’t count.

While I am trying to sort my thoughts out Sherlock takes a step closer to Jen, gives a little bow and holds out his hand. Jen giggles and blushes, not quite so sure now that it is clear Sherlock intends to take an active part in this. She looks briefly back at Andy but he just whispers something I don’t catch and gives her a nudge. I think I can guess the gist of what Andy said because Jen has gone a shade redder, and there is no mistaking the amused glint in Sherlock’s eye as he takes Jen’s hand. It makes me feel a little sorry for her, knowing how hard it is to resist him, especially at his manipulative – and charming – best, and how he is reading her every reaction, and how it means nothing to him.

He catches my eye, breaking off my musings in mid-flow. As he walks Jen past me to one of the benches he briefly stops and whispers, “Fascinating. And I thought for a moment you might get jealous.”

I look at him as he gets Jen to sit down at one end of the bench, not sure how to respond to that comment, but he nudges his head for me to follow, indicating the other side of the bench with his eyes. As I make my way over he sits down behind Jen, getting her to rest against him while his nimble fingers make short work of the studs on the extremely pink and lacy ensemble that she is wearing. By the time I have sat down on the foot end of the bench she is down to her briefs, which consist of very little indeed, Sherlock using one hand to hold her wrists behind her back. She’s looking pretty flustered and her breath is coming rapidly. I have to admit she looks gorgeous.

Sherlock meets my eyes again, a brief nod indicating it’s my turn. Without knowing what else to do I kiss Jen’s tummy, wondering what I would expect me to do in this situation, what she likes. Running my hands over her inner thighs elicits a shudder and I go with it, following the trails of my fingers with kisses. She is incredibly responsive, and as I glance up to look at her face I can see Sherlock is slowly running his other hand over her breasts, rubbing her nipples when he passes. She has her eyes closed.

While I watch Sherlock puts his mouth near her ear and begins to whisper unheard things to her. Jen’s reaction is almost immediate and although I can’t hear what he is saying I know what he is doing, telling her own personal secrets back to her, the things he has observed, the things she thought were safe. For a moment it seems she is going to fight him but then he says something else and she relaxes into it, arching her back against Sherlock with a soft moan. It is intoxicating and despite the exhaustion I feel my arousal beginning to build again.

Once more Sherlock looks across to me, his calm gaze piercing, and the I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know that he manages to convey with the one glance is just too much. I bury my face in Jen’s crotch, kissing her as she responds to the sudden return of my touch, trying not to let Sherlock’s mind games get to me a third time this evening, concentrating on the job in hand.

Jen moans as I take off her panties, kissing her clit as I slide them down her legs, then running my hand back up her inner thighs and entering her with two fingers. It is easy, I know exactly what this feels like, what feels good, what must feel good for her. I can’t look at Sherlock but I also know that what I am doing is but a mere accessory to what he’s doing to her head. Jen is writhing underneath me and I put my other arm across her to steady her as I lick her clit gently, trying not to overload her. She’s incredibly wet and I slide a third finger inside her, wondering how sensitive she is. I don’t know whether that is what pushes her over the edge but she reaches orgasm violently, wrapping her legs tightly around me as she contracts on my hand, her moans nearly turning to yells. It takes a long time for her to ride it out, until with a shudder she releases her grip on me and collapses onto the bench.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

I sit up and take in the scene in front of me. Jen is sprawled on the bench, dazed, leaning heavily against Sherlock, who is looking amused in a self-satisfied kind of way. He’s released her arms but is still holding onto her body to stop her falling off. Andy must have come over at some point as he is standing close by, looking more than a little aroused. Nobody is moving.

I stroke Jen’s body gently and after a while she focuses on me and gives a big sigh. “Jesus.” Then she scrambles up, or tries to, but it takes a few attempts and more than a little help from Sherlock before she is upright. She half turns around to look at him, apparently lost for words, and blushes bright red when he raises an amused eyebrow at her. In a last-ditch attempt to get some composure back she looks at Andy. “Fuck.”

Andy grins at her. “That could be arranged.” Jen giggles, finally returning to herself. Then she turns back to Sherlock. “Thank you.”

Sherlock just nods at her, then gets up and takes her hand, helping Jen off the bench. He passes her to Andy with a cursory bow. “All yours, I believe.”

The room returns to a strangely quiet state after they leave. I’m halfway between sated and aroused, and all in all quite pleased that I managed to get through the night without freaking out. Sherlock has returned to the chair and appears to be thinking, with his head thrown back, eyes fixed on the ceiling and hands folded on his chest. He looks slightly rumpled and delicious, and for a while I just stare at him. Then, not knowing what else to do, I get dressed.

I have just finished with the tights when Sherlock snaps back to the here and now and comes over to me, giving me a cursory glance over. He gives a little dismissive laugh as he walks past me to get his jacket which is hanging on the corner of the St. Andrew’s cross. I have to admit it catches me on the wrong side, and my “What” comes out more challenging than I intended.

Sherlock stops and looks at me, clearly contemplating whether what is on his mind is worth sharing. Then he sighs and says, “Look at you. You’re so pleased with yourself, having made it through the evening, survived my little power games, got past your own self-imposed barriers. When that’s all it is, games and story-telling. None of it is real. It is all in your head. The only real power is the power over life and death.” He considers me a moment longer while I struggle with my indignation. I’m sure he can see how angry he has made me, having dismissed my experiences like that. Then he straightens his jacket, mind made up, and says, matter-of-factly, “Which I will demonstrate.”

I just stare at him, completely unsure about what he has just said. With the faintest hint of a smile he beckons me over to the St. Andrew’s cross and I go to it, surprisingly wobbly in the legs, thankful that I hadn’t got round to the shoes yet. Without further elaboration he straps me to the thing until I am spread-eagled in a kind of semi-suspension, facing him. He’s put the cuffs on tightly; there is no way I could wriggle out of these. My wrists and ankles are taking most of my weight, the leather cutting into the marks from the previous suspension cuffs painfully. By now I am too apprehensive to take very much notice.

When Sherlock is finished he stands in front of me, eyes slightly narrowed, observing my tension. He looks serious, cold, any hint of amusement gone, focused on what he is about to do. It doesn’t help my nervousness at all.

“Trust me,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question, but even so he is waiting for a response from me. I swallow and nod, wondering as I do so if I’ve just committed to something really stupid. Sherlock smiles, a little triumphant smile, which quickly dissolves into utter seriousness again. It scares me more than anything else he’s done this evening and I am very briefly reminded of Jim Moriarty, and of something Sally Donovan said. In the intensity of the moment I have forgotten about the existence of safewords.

Before I have time to collect my thoughts any further Sherlock has leaned over and taken my face in his hands. He is covering my eyes with one hand as he pinches my nose closed, at the same time holding my chin with his other hand and covering my mouth with his. I am completely immobilised, unable to shout a safeword if I wanted to, and I can’t breathe.

We stay there for a moment as the acute danger of my situation hits home and I suppress the urge to try to struggle free, knowing full well that if Sherlock is determined I don’t stand a chance. I am getting desperate to take a breath. Just as I am beginning to believe he is going to let me faint or die I feel the air slowly being sucked out of my lungs as he inhales through his mouth, then the soft touch of his breath on my face as he exhales through his nose. Now he is breathing in again, fresh air through his nose, and finally in a moment of complete relief he fills my lungs with his life-giving breath.

My initial thought is that’s it, he’s proved his point, he can let go now. I am still near panic, overwhelmed by a feeling of claustrophobia. However he repeats the cycle calmly, breathing just slightly too slowly for my comfort, leaving me to wonder again if I am going to make it. Once again he empties and fills my lungs just in time, relief coursing through me like adrenaline as my breath is returned to me. The third, fourth time around there is no panic on my part as unease slowly turns into trust and I enter a strange state of relaxation. It is easily the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to me. I am literally living on his breath and my whole world has shrunk to the basics of existence, Sherlock, and me.

It is impossible to judge how long we stay like this. I am measuring time in breaths, every breath seeming to last an eternity. Eventually Sherlock empties my lungs one last time, then covers my mouth with his hand, still cutting off my breath. He straightens up and studies my face closely but I have gone past fear and just look back at him, not flinching, finally understanding what complete trust really means.

He smiles then, but doesn’t let me go yet. It is only when my lungs start to spasm involuntarily that he slowly draws his hand away, trailing his fingers over my lips as he does so, watching me still. I manage to hold on until his index finger leaves my lips and he has let go of me altogether, then finally I take a deep, gasping breath, and another, and another. Sherlock steps away, looking thoughtful.

When I get my breath back he undoes the straps at my ankles and finally my wrists. After the last strap is undone I take a step towards him but my knees buckle and I fall at his feet. Sherlock gives a little laugh. “How very dramatic.”

His gentle tone of voice softens the sarcasm in the words. I look up at him, feeling like a character in a bad romance novel, but he reaches his hand out and pulls me up without further comment. When I am stable again I ask, “Is there any point in telling you that I love you?”

He contemplates me for a moment, quite serious. Then he says, “Very little. And you’d be repeating yourself.” Again there is a soft edge to the words that belies their harshness. To myself I think that five minutes to cure this crush is no longer anywhere near enough, but I don’t say it. Sherlock has followed the thought through, though, still observing me. “It would be plenty of time,” he says. “But it would destroy you.”

 

\--ooOoo--

 

There is nothing more to say after that, so we leave the room in silence and make our way back to the bar. Sherlock gets drinks and we sit down in the breakout area. My head is still in a funny place so I make myself comfortable on a couple of cushions at his feet, keeping well below the firing line, not wishing to speak to anyone. Sherlock is keeping equally quiet. Dom is there, and the gay couple who we saw last week, and a few people I don’t know. After a while Kelvin appears. Sherlock gives him the long stare.

“I believe you owe Adriane an apology.”

Kelvin looks shifty, as if he’s ready to run. He won’t meet Sherlock’s eyes and I can’t help wondering what Sherlock said to him the week before. Dom cuts in. “I believe Sherlock has a point, Kelvin.”

The look that Kelvin gives Dom could kill at short range. However, he turns to me and mumbles a “Sorry.” I’m fervently hoping that Sherlock is not going to pull him up on the mumbling, but it is Dom that says, “I didn’t quite hear that.”

Kelvin takes a deep breath, clearly fuming. For a moment it looks like he is just going to storm off, but then he manages to control himself. He looks at me straight and says, “I’m sorry, Adriane.” I’m not sure what to say to him, but Sherlock saves me the dilemma by saying, “Thank you, Kelvin.”

The tension in the group diffuses, and everyone returns to what they were talking about. Kelvin sits down some way away from us and does his best to ignore Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, is making small talk with two people on his right, not something I ever thought I would hear him do. The conversation drifts towards his work and he wastes no time in exposing his disdain for the police and their methods. He recounts a couple of cold cases that he solved with very little evidence, turning out to be a surprisingly good story teller along the way. Looking across I can see that Dom is listening intently, as are a few of the other people around him.

For reasons I can’t explain I feel at home here, and safe, and after a while I find myself drifting off listening to the sound of Sherlock’s deep voice. When I return to the here and now most people have gone but Dom is still there in quiet conversation with Sherlock. To my surprise Kelvin has joined them.

After listening to them for a short while I realise with some horror that Sherlock is recounting the trafficking case. It isn’t something I want to be reminded of, ever, and he is going into far too much detail for my peace of mind. I shift uncomfortably where I am sitting. Sherlock stops talking and looks at me. It takes him a moment to register why I am looking so upset.

“Adriane. Go and have a drink with Jennifer and Andrew.” He passes me twenty pounds and I am more than happy to scarper. Dom watches me go, curiously, but I take no notice and head straight to where Jen and Andy are standing. Jen welcomes me with a big hug. “I never said thank you to you.”

I say that’s fine, I just hope she enjoyed it, and it feels a bit weird to be talking about this. I wonder what it was Sherlock said to her but I can’t really ask. In the end I get a round of drinks and we chat about everything and nothing for a while. Every time, however, the subject returns to Sherlock. It’s clear that Jen hasn’t quite recovered yet. During a break in the conversation she suddenly asks, “Do you get used to it?”

I look at her blankly. She giggles. “You know, the way he seems to know everything. The getting into your mind.” Shaking my head, I say, “No. I’ve just stopped being surprised at it.”

My eyes drift over to the three men on the sofas and Jen also looks across, momentarily thoughtful. As we watch Dominic detaches himself from the group and walks over. I have a sense of déjà vu when he stops in front of me and gives me a very close look over. “Did that really happen?”

I don’t need to ask what he is referring to. I nod, then I show him the scar on my collarbone. I don’t know how much Sherlock told him but I turn around so he can look at my back anyway. The little pockmark scars on my shoulders are hard to mistake for anything else. When I turn back to face him he is looking a little shocked but he doesn’t say anything. I can tell that Jen is bursting to ask what all this is about.

“I’m not sure whether you’re brave or suicidal,” Dom says in the end and walks off. Suddenly I’m desperate to go home, not wanting to have to explain anything to Andy and Jen, bad memories threatening to overtake me. Thankfully Sherlock seems to have finished his discussions with Kelvin and is coming over. I don’t know what I look like but he smiles a little at the state of me. “No escape, then.”

He seems in a good mood, obviously pleased at how the evening went. At the moment I can’t share his good cheer. Suddenly Jen takes my hand and drags me into another big hug. “Go home, Adri. You look miserable.” I return the hug and whisper a thank you.

When we break off she doesn’t let go of my hand but passes it to Sherlock. “All yours, I believe.”

The irony isn’t lost on Sherlock. He gives a little bow to Jen, keeping hold of my hand, and says, “Thank you.” She’s trying to look serious but fails, dissolving in giggles once more. When she calms down she says, “You look after her, Sherlock.”

He looks at her curiously for a moment and then answers, “I do.” Then without further ado he walks off, trailing me behind him. I manage to give a wave to Jen and Andy before we disappear around the corner.

In the taxi Sherlock turns to me. “Home?”

I’m surprised he’s giving me a choice. I’m even more surprised that I have to think about it, but there really isn’t another option. I’ve had my cage thoroughly rattled tonight and I just want to be close to him. Frankly, the thought of being on my own scares me at the moment. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

It comes out sounding pretty pathetic and I nearly change my mind on the spot in embarrassment. Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn’t seem perturbed by it. “Very well.”

We don’t speak much on the way home. I ask him whether he got anything out of Dom, and Sherlock says not yet, but give him time. Then I ask why Kelvin was suddenly so interested. Sherlock is thoughtful for a while, then he says, “Lizzie O’Connor was Kelvin’s girlfriend at the time of the murder. Given the nature of their relationship the police took the obvious decision of making him prime suspect. He has had more of his fair share of false accusations levelled at him and is still under close scrutiny by the Met.”

“Oh.” I say. There really isn’t much else to add. I suddenly feel dreadfully sorry for the guy.

The rest of the journey passes in silence and the flat in Baker Street is dark when we get in. The clock in the kitchen has it well after one, so it’s no great surprise that John has decided to go to sleep. Sherlock picks up his laptop and makes himself comfortable in his chair, seemingly unaware of the time. I don’t know what to do, feeling exhausted on the one hand and having a head full of whirring thoughts on the other. While I am standing trying to make my mind up Sherlock looks across and just says, “Bed.”

I appreciate the decision being taken away from me even though it makes me feel a bit like a five-year-old. With an “OK” I make my way to the bedroom, take everything off bar the silly thong, look in vain for my own clothes for a few minutes in order to find something more decent to wear, finally decide it is irrelevant, give up and roll into Sherlock’s bed.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

I have no idea what time it is when I wake up. There is only a hint of grey light around the edge of the curtain, so it isn’t properly day time yet. In any case it feels like I have only been asleep for an hour or so. I can’t figure out why I woke; I am still absolutely exhausted. Then I feel it again: the ghosting of fingertips along my spine, the touch barely perceptible. In complete confusion I roll over. As I do so my thigh brushes against Sherlock’s considerable erection.

“Oh.”

He’s looking at me. I can just about make out his features in the half-light, and if I didn’t know him better I’d say he looks embarrassed. “It won’t go down,” he says, sounding awkward.

It is my turn to smile at him. He looks completely lost about something which any normal person wouldn’t consider much of an issue. I guess he feels his body is betraying him, rebelling against his carefully maintained levels of mental and physical self-control. Personally I don’t find it surprising after the night we’ve just had. “Would you like some help with that?”

Instead of answering he runs his hand over my skin. I’m not sure what the rules are in this situation but he’s looking so out of sorts that I lean over, put my hand on his cheek and kiss him carefully. He returns the kiss hesitantly so I try again, a little bolder this time. This time he kisses me back more strongly, but there is still a hesitancy that frankly unnerves me. It is as if to Sherlock sex is fine as long as it is part of a game, but not as an act that might require emotional involvement.

I break off the kiss and look at him again. “It’s OK, Sherlock. Let it go. You are allowed to be loved.”

He looks at me then, intensely, a thousand unspoken thoughts in his eyes, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. Then he gently takes my hand off his face and rolls me on my back, manoeuvring himself on top of me in the same movement. He stays there a while, studying my face as if he hasn’t seen it before, until I feel well and truly exposed. Then he slowly enters me, kissing me at the same time and there is hurt and loneliness in the kiss, raw and undisguised. Part of me can’t help thinking that it shouldn’t be me, it should be John, and I kiss him back all the harder for it.

Once again time seems to dissolve, measured in the long slow thrusts of Sherlock’s body into mine, the steady increase of the rhythm. He is holding onto me for dear life and the raw emotion that he is conveying brings tears to my eyes. At some point he rolls me over so I am on top and now I am grinding into him while he is watching me intently, a look of need on his face. In a moment of inspiration I take his arms and cross them over his head, holding him down at his wrists and elbows. It’s symbolic; we both know that he could free himself in an instant if he chooses to, but even so he frowns at me in confusion and an almost reflexive defensiveness.

I smile at him again and kiss him. “Let it go. Just let it all go.”

When I raise myself back up he gives me a long look of complete understanding, then closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. I can feel his whole body relax as he clears his mind of rational thought and lets himself be overtaken by sensation. I take over then, defining the rhythm of our movements as he rides the wave, feeling his rising excitement as it builds, making love to him with an abandon that I have not been able to express before. When he comes I hold him down, kissing his face, my own orgasm suddenly overtaking me as he thrusts into me deeply, arching his back.

Afterwards Sherlock is quiet for a long time, watching me until I begin to feel uncomfortable. I am wondering if he feels that I have somehow taken advantage of him, drawn out something that he has not been prepared to share with anyone, leaving him vulnerable in some way. My “I’m sorry” overlaps almost perfectly with his “thank you.” With a slight smile that is almost entirely reminiscent of his normal self he rolls me over, curls his arm around me and, from his breathing, almost instantly falls into a deep sleep.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I require you to accompany me on a case. John has regretfully declined,” Sherlock says.
> 
> I change my mind. This really doesn’t sound good. Vaguely I ask, to the room in general, “Why?”
> 
> John snorts. “Because I refuse to dress up in black latex like some gay porn icon to spend the night at an S&M dive, regardless of how crucial it might be to solving a murder case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK this was a quick one - it ended up being mainly fluff, with a pinch of angst thrown in. Usual warnings apply.

It is broad daylight when I wake up. The sun is streaming through the windows, the light almost blinding me when I first open my eyes. Sherlock has long ago got up by the look of it. I wonder what time it is.

My clothes are nowhere to be seen. I remember leaving them in the living room the night before, far too much in a tizz to even think about them. For a moment I consider wandering in as I am, but then decide I wouldn’t want to do that to John. Instead I pick up the black shirt that Sherlock wore the night before and put it on over the thong. Then I potter into the kitchen in search of some food.

There are voices in the living room that I decide to ignore for the moment. By now I know where the teabags are so I switch the kettle on and root around for a clean mug. While I am waiting for the water to boil I look through the double doors, wondering what John and Sherlock are talking about. My eyes meet a complete stranger sitting in one of the chairs who is looking at me as if I was something he found in his soup. I freeze.

“Adriane, step in here a moment.” Sherlock’s voice pulls me out of it. I take a few tentative steps into the living room, trying to avoid the man’s gaze. He is looking down his nose at me, an expression of utter disdain on his face. John is in the corner, looking concerned but not saying anything. I look at Sherlock for some help, who regards me calmly and says, “Adriane, this is my brother Mycroft. You do not have to speak to him unless you want to.”

The man shifts his gaze to Sherlock with such viciousness that I’m surprised Sherlock doesn’t flinch. The two brothers lock eyes a moment, then Mycroft Holmes turns back to me with a smile that would make a crocodile jealous. “Ah yes. Miss Woodford. So nice to meet you at last. I can see how you are being… _useful_ to my brother.” He is looking me up and down as he says it and manages to convey complete disgust in the word _useful_. Across the room there is a sharp intake of breath from John, but Sherlock just tilts his head backward and steeples his fingers, observing but not intervening.

The fact I’m wearing Sherlock’s shirt is only making this worse. I am blushing from my head to my toes and I’m vaguely aware that I’m pulling the hem down to make sure my bottom is covered, although it makes no difference at all to my sense of total exposure. Although there isn’t much of a family resemblance otherwise, both Holmes brothers have the same way of looking straight through people. I shudder, unable to think of anything at all to say.

“Tell me, Miss Woodford,” Mycroft Holmes continues as he takes out an expensive-looking pocket watch and considers it. “Do you have any more information of national importance you’d like to share? Or are you saving it up for a special occasion?” He snaps the watch shut and looks back at me with a cold, smug little smile. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up and I’m wondering what would happen if I just ran away.

“Enough, Mycroft,” Sherlock suddenly says. “Leave her alone.” I can’t remember when I have felt more relieved at the sound of his voice.

Mycroft huffs and gives me another foul look before returning his attention to Sherlock. “I’m disappointed, Sherlock. I’d never expected you to waste time on some cheap… floozy.”

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “And I never thought you would feel the need to score points at the expense of someone so _clearly_ your intellectual inferior. You’re losing your touch, Mycroft.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in distaste but refrains from further comment as he gets up and straightens his jacket. He gives John a cursory nod which is all too reminiscent of Sherlock’s mannerisms, then considers me one final time. “Remember what I said, Sherlock,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. “They don’t change. You’ll see.”

He leaves and total silence descends over the flat for a moment as the front door falls shut. Then John bursts out. “Jesus, Sherlock, what was that all about?”

Sherlock says nothing but just shakes his head dismissively and picks up a book. I’m shaking, totally overwhelmed by everything that has just been said. To mask how upset I am I step back into the kitchen and make a clumsy attempt at putting a cup of tea together. John comes in when the mug crashes onto the floor and shatters into a thousand pieces. He ignores the shards, puts his arms around me and squeezes me into a hug. After a moment he calls across to the living room, “Sherlock, come and deal with your mess.”

Sherlock appears at the doorway. He quickly surveys the room and says, “I didn’t drop the mug.”

I can imagine the look John is giving him when he answers. “That’s not what I was talking about.” He lets go of me as Sherlock looks across. I grab the nearest thing to hand, which happens to be a damp and pretty manky-looking tea towel, and wipe my face dry. Sherlock frowns at me slightly. “Why are you so upset? Mycroft’s gone. In any case that was all for my benefit, not yours.”

Now I’m getting angry. “Cheap, brainless whore,” I snap at him. “I can translate, Sherlock.”

Sherlock regards me a second. “You forgot untrustworthy. Although it was only insinuated.”

Behind me, John says, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs. “Listen. Mycroft was out to score points. He could have said much worse than that. I’m surprised you even took notice of him.”

“ _Intellectually inferior_.” I’m still fuming.

He raises an eyebrow. “I said that to deflect Mycroft’s attention away from you. I could have let him carry on if you’d liked. Besides, it’s true. You are no match for him.”

Sherlock walks back to the living room, leaving John and me standing in a pool of broken crockery. He touches my arm. “You OK?”

I take a deep breath and nod. He looks at me with a little smile and says, “I don’t know what century Mycroft is living in, anyway. I mean, _floozy_?”

It makes me smile. John gives me a little nudge. “Come on, let’s tidy this up.” 

\--ooOoo--

After breakfast and a bath, when I’ve calmed down enough, I get my stuff together. As I go to get my coat Sherlock looks up from his book. “Where are you going?”

I’m confused. “Home?”

He considers this a moment. “Hm. Back here tomorrow at eight.”

“Wha… Tomorrow?” I’m not sure I can deal with this. I may even have plans.

“Yes. Or you may stay here for the duration.”

“Oh.” I don’t even know if I want to, or what he means, and whether there is any subtext. My head is a complete mess. “Can I go for a walk?”

Now Sherlock looks at me properly, registering the confused meaning behind my words. After a moment he gives an amused sigh, sounding only slightly derisive. “Adriane, you are welcome to spend the next two days in whichever way you choose, and that includes spending time here or at home, or walking, or swimming in the Thames for all I care. But I need you back here tomorrow night. And if you are with us this evening I will take us all out for dinner.”

Put that way it suddenly sounds quite appealing. “Oh,” I say again. “Thank you.”

He smiles, rolls his eyes a little, and returns to his book.

John has been watching the discussion with some concern. Now he jumps at the opportunity. “I’ll come for a walk with you.”

\--ooOoo--

 We walk quietly for a while, making our way to the top of Baker Street and into Queen Mary’s Gardens. It’s busy in the park with people enjoying the sunshine. We sit down on one of the benches and watch the walkers, cyclists and skaters pass by. After sitting in companionable silence for some time John says, “Are you OK?”

I sigh, thankful for his genuine interest. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s all a bit much at the moment.”

He nods, contemplating his hands. “Did everything go OK last night?” He’s being circumspect; I can tell he’s dying to know what happened, what Sherlock did. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it. I look at him a moment, thinking. Then I nod. “Yeah, it went OK.”

John is not looking very convinced. “Are you sure?”

It’s clear he’s not going to leave this alone. I guess total honesty is probably the best option. “John, it was mind-blowing. He’s very good at this. You can probably imagine.”

He contemplates this a moment, then says, “Yes. No,” and then, after a pause, “Yes.” I smile. He looks as uncomfortable as I feel. I don’t know what drives me to say, “He got some other people involved. They were very good, too.”

He doesn’t even look very shocked, just sighs and shakes his head. “Jesus, Adri. And you’re OK with that?”

I’m wondering how much to tell him. I know what it looks like on the outside, how easy it is to jump to conclusions. “Yes, I am actually.” When he doesn’t look at all sure I add, “John, he looked after me. He takes a lot of notice of what you say. It was one hell of an experience.”

John gives me a long, thoughtful look and I decide that’s probably as much as I should say about that. To lighten the mood a little I say, “See, floozy after all.”

He smiles and shakes his head a little, and we carry on our walk.

We’re out for much longer than I thought we would be. After Queen Mary’s Gardens we continue onto Regents Park and spend forever sitting at the boating lake, drinking take-away coffee and talking about nothing much at all. Then we make a big loop back to my flat near UCL where I pick up a few things for staying overnight and end up making John lunch with whatever I can find in my fridge. He’s on a roll, treating me to any number of silly stories about the cases Sherlock and him have been involved with, and he has me laughing out loud on more than one occasion. On the way back we stop by one of the local pubs for a pint. It is late afternoon by the time we roll back onto the doorstep of Baker Street, chilled out and a bit giggly.

Sherlock isn’t in when we get back, and John makes tea while I flop onto the sofa. Not more than ten minutes later Sherlock stomps up the stairs carrying four or five large bags, the type that come out of expensive department stores or exclusive boutiques. I don’t recognise any of the names on them, and some of the bags are unmarked. He whisks past and disappears into his bedroom, to come out five minutes or so later looking self-satisfied and rather gorgeous, cup of tea in hand. On his way across the sitting room he briefly stops in front of me. “You _are_ intending to get changed.”

It’s a nice chance for me to roll my eyes at Sherlock. “No, I’m going out in jeans.”

The sideways look he gives me is mainly amused, although it carries a fair hint of warning not to take liberties. He sits down in his chair, picks up a book and to all intents and purposes shuts himself off from the rest of the room.

For a while I try to concentrate on an ancient chemistry tome that I have picked up off the shelves, but although the book is fascinating in its antiquity I find myself just looking at the pictures, unable to focus much on the text. John is tapping away slowly at this laptop, but after a while he comes over and settles himself next to me on the sofa. He leans across to see what I’m reading. “Riveting. I see you go for the romance novels every time, then.”

I laugh and close the book. “I was really enjoying that actually. It’s funny how things move on.”

It seems as good a time as any to get changed. I make an effort, not knowing where we’re going. When I come out of the bathroom John gives an appreciative whistle which elicits a despairing eye roll from Sherlock. “Really, John.”

“Well, it’s better than your efforts at making compliments.”

Sherlock looks at him a bit confused and frowning slightly. “I don’t make compliments.”

“Exactly,” John says, and gets up. I try to suppress a laugh as John catches my eye and winks.

Suddenly Sherlock is there, far too close to me, looking down intently. It takes an effort not to take a step back as I stare back at him, wondering what he’s doing. He holds my gaze long enough for me to start feeling very uncomfortable and then says, sincerely and in a quiet, low and extremely attractive tone, “You look nice.”

I can feel the blood rise to my cheeks as I blush furiously. Sherlock watches my reaction for a second, then turns to John and throws him a pointed look. John shakes his head while I try to get to grips with feeling totally silly, but I nearly lose it again when Sherlock gallantly helps me into my coat before getting his own. He opens both doors for me on the way down, and when we get outside he turns to John. “Is that better?”

“Yes, I’m impressed,” John says. “Now can you keep that up all evening?”

Sherlock gives him a raised eyebrow, obviously happy to accept the challenge, but I have by now had enough of being the subject of an elaborate wind-up. Besides, I’m not sure I could survive complimentary Sherlock for an entire night; chances are I would never recover. “That’s OK, I think I preferred things as they were.”

John laughs appreciatively and Sherlock just glances at me a second. “Very well.”

Even so, when he’s hailed a taxi he holds the door open for me with a flourish and a smug smile, his keen gaze studying my flustered reaction. I decide there is no use in pushing my point any further and that in fact it might make things much worse, so I just say thank you and sit down. John squeezes up next to me and whispers a quick “Sorry” while Sherlock is talking to the taxi driver. I shrug and say it’s OK, and wonder what the rest of the evening is going to be like.

\--ooOoo--

 As it turns out I needn’t have worried. Sherlock is on excellent form, whether because he can see the end of the case or for another reason I don’t know, and he and John prove to be great company and very funny at times. They have an easy chemistry which almost makes me jealous; it also makes me wonder if John is really that obtuse, or whether he is just waiting for Sherlock to make the first move, or whether he is in denial.

The restaurant we are at is classy but not ostentatious and the food is very good indeed, so I find myself just enjoying the evening and doing more listening than talking. I decide to keep my wits about me though, and stop at the one glass of wine. Neither John nor Sherlock seem affected by making their way through the best part of two bottles of wine during the course of the evening. I’m glad I didn’t try to keep up, I’d be singing by now.

When the table is cleared John suggests going for a drink before heading home, and we end up in the cosy bar that is attached to the restaurant. Both Sherlock and John order whisky, and I decide that it’s either a large coffee or sleep for me at this point. We’ve sat down on a set of comfy sofas near the back of the place, not far from a log fire. Sherlock has commandeered an armchair in the corner and if it wasn’t for the other groups of people in the place we could be back at Baker Street. I find myself sitting in a warm glow when Sherlock looks over and says, “I do believe Adriane thinks I have an ulterior motive for taking us out tonight.”

I didn’t see that coming at all. “What?”

John laughs. “My guess is it’s the coffee. Trying to stay awake while the two of us are drowning our sorrows.” He takes a swig of his drink as if to prove the point, then grins at Sherlock. “Am I right?”

Sherlock smiles. “Very good, John. Although I am hardly drowning my sorrows.” He puts his glass down. “That, and the fact that she consistently ordered the least expensive items on the menu while we were having dinner, even going so far as skipping dessert, which I know for a fact is not something she would usually do in a place like this given the chance.” He contemplates me for a little longer, then finishes, “I can only conclude that she expects me to call in the favour later and does not want to be too far indebted.”

I’m aware I’m doing a goldfish impression. While I did have that train of thought at the start of the evening I didn’t think I’d been that obvious. To counter Sherlock’s smug smile I say, “I’ll have a port.”

To my surprise he gets up and wanders off to the bar, coming back some time later with a glass of port and something that looks suspiciously like a large piece of chocolate fudge cake, which he puts down in front of me. I didn’t think the bar menu went further than crisps and peanuts and I’m getting pretty guarded now. “What’s this?”

Sherlock smiles disarmingly. “Dessert.” When I don’t look convinced he adds, “The barman owes me a favour.”

He sits back down and then just stares at me. John is watching the proceedings with amused curiosity, having sunk comfortably into his side of the sofa and looking for all the world like he lives here. I stare back at Sherlock, wondering what on Earth he is up to. “What are you doing?”

“At this moment I am assessing the depth of your paranoia.”

I’m really not sure what to think. The cake looks delicious, which doesn’t help. “ _Is_ there an ulterior motive?”

He smiles again, more enigmatically this time. “Not one that could be achieved with a mere slice of cake.”

I’m beginning to come to the conclusion that this is a wind-up and he just loves seeing me off balance, or maybe it is a test to see how much I am prepared to put up with, or maybe he really is just making a point about me being too paranoid. He’s right though. I am no longer able to take anything he does at face value, always looking for the catch. However, it seems a waste of good food to leave it so I pick up the fork and start making my way through the cake, which turns out to be as gooey and chocolatey and delicious as it looked. Sherlock gives a little chuckle, challenge completed, and returns his attention to John, who smiles and shakes his head. I wonder how often he has to deal with stuff like that from Sherlock.

They are in the middle of a discussion about Mrs. Hudson and her late husband when I finish. As an afterthought I drink the port, too quickly, and then wish I hadn’t. Between the coffee, the chocolate and the alcohol I am now feeling decidedly wired. My only hope is that if I sit quietly in my corner and just listen to the conversation it will go away.

When John drops another port in front of me at the next round I try to refuse. He gives me a grin. “Never seen you drunk. Could be funny.”

Sherlock raises a sardonic eyebrow. “Could be embarrassing.”

“Oh, so you _have_ seen her drunk,” John says, giving him a conspirational look. “Tell me all.”

“Adriane has the unfortunate habit of losing all sense of propriety when she drinks.”

“Well,” John says, “If that’s all, I’m sure she’s not the only one. Drink up.”

For some reason, probably to do with my already tipsy state, I decide that it’s probably time for me to tease Sherlock a little. After all he seems to delight in doing it to me and I feel I am owed a turn. I drink the port quickly, all the while staring at Sherlock. He returns my gaze stoically, without comment, and pointedly looks back to John with a slight eye roll when I put the empty glass back on the table. John smiles but doesn’t say anything.

I try to pretend that I can’t feel my head turning fuzzy almost immediately as the warm glow of the alcohol spreads through my body. As surrepticiously as I can manage I snuggle into the sofa, content to watch Sherlock and John talk and without feeling any need to contribute to the conversation. Hopefully I can prove Sherlock wrong by just keeping my mouth shut.

I have to admit they are both very easy on the eye, especially when they are like this – relaxed, enjoying a night out. It surprises me how funny Sherlock can be when the mood takes him, and how genuinely admiring John is of him. It is sometimes hard to see it when they are in the middle of things, when Sherlock’s hard-hitting opinions and observations grate against John’s morality and their relationship seems to be made up of continual verbal tussles. On an occasion such as this they look good together. In fact, they look perfect.

I am pulled out of my reverie when John gets up to get another round of drinks, and returns with an elaborate looking cocktail. There is a small glass floating in the centre of it. “What on Earth is it?”

“It’s a Firebomb. Try it.”

Before I have had a chance to even get to the drink Sherlock has picked it up and is examining it in detail. After having sniffed it he dips his finger in the shot glass and tastes it. “Cinnamon shnapps, Red Bull, Vodka. I am beginning to suspect you are trying to poison her.”

John just grins. “It’s nice, actually. And hopefully the Red Bull will stop Adriane falling asleep. She’s got very quiet.”

Sherlock passes the glass back to me with an “It’s probably better that way.” I take a tentative sip. It’s a bit weird drinking from two glasses at the same time, but the cocktail itself is spectacular. The combination of energy drink and alcohol is adding to my buzz and dizziness in equal measure. The cinnamon is warming, and I am more and more sinking into a glowing state of contentedness, by now just watching Sherlock and John, listening to the sound of their voices and no longer paying much heed to what they are talking about.

As I work my way through the drink I’m quietly thinking to myself that they are both gorgeous, and my thoughts turn down a decidedly raunchy avenue. It is so tempting to wonder what it would be like, having the two of them together, what they would do to me. It’s hard to stop the thoughts once they have started to take over my head and so I let them run their course. John and Sherlock aren’t taking much notice of me at the moment anyway. In any case, I’m getting a bit past caring.

After a while Sherlock turns to observe me a moment. “John, I think Adriane has had enough to drink.”

John turns to me. “Oh? How so?”

“She’s spent the last twenty minutes looking at us both like we are sweets. I’m afraid that if she drinks any more she will embarrass us all by doing something inexcusable.”

I feel he is being a bit unfair. “Not doing anything,” I blurt out. “Can’t help it that you’re both delicious.” It’s hard to get the words out. I really shouldn’t have kept on drinking.

John laughs, a look of slight disbelief on his face, but Sherlock is looking at me with resignation. “Here we go.”

It makes me unreasonably cross. “Only speaking my mind. Mm entitled to my opinion.”

“Of course you are,” John says, grinning at me. “Speak your mind some more.”

I can hear Sherlock sigh with exasperation on the other side, but I’m trying to focus on John which is hard enough it itself. “You and Sherlock should be together.”

John rolls his eyes. “Not you as well, Adri. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not gay, and he’s not interested.”

I huff and try to think of something witty to reply to that, knowing that at least half of his statement is plain wrong, but Sherlock just says, “Adriane.” There’s more than a hint of warning in it and even in my inebriated state I have sense enough to take some notice of him.

“Fine. You keep deluding yourselves.” I leave it there a moment, wondering vaguely if that was a bit harsh, and then say, without thinking at all, “Would be one helluva threesome though.”

John looks at me as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just heard, then bursts into giggles. It’s clear he’s a bit worse for wear himself. I look at Sherlock, and am met with a level stare. “Home.”

I shrug. “Whadyou expect. I’m a floozy. Mycroft said it. Sure you think so too.”

I can’t quite work out whether he’s upset or not, but then I can’t work out quite a few things at the moment, like where my coat is and how to stand up straight. In the end I manage to stagger out of the place supported by Sherlock and John, and they somehow get me into a taxi. During the ride I launch into a rendition of the [Dirty Goblin Song](http://www.sevenswords.co.uk/Harts/library/songs/dirtygoblins.htm), which has John in whoops of laughter. This in turn launches me into a fit of giggles, until I am sat on the floor of the cab hiccupping. Sherlock is looking out the window silently. When the cab stops in front of my own flat I turn to him, confused. “’S not Baker Street.”

“No, it isn’t,” he says, matter-of-factly. They get me out and manage to walk me up the stairs, where Sherlock opens the door with his own bunch of keys. It annoys me that he has still got my front door key on there. “’S my key.”

He looks at me, obviously wondering whether that’s even worth a response. Having decided it isn’t he helps John to get me into the hallway. They take my coat off, which has me in another heap of giggles, and then John navigates me to the bedroom. He gets me to sit down on the bed and takes my shoes off. I hum a little, “Ee-eye, bollocky eye, bollocky eye taboo” while he’s doing it and John giggles. Sherlock is watching from the bedroom door, staying silent. He looks impressive and thoughtful and a little dangerous and I think he’s gorgeous. I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes off him.

John tries to get my attention, failing at the first two attempts. “Adri.”

I finally smile at him, thinking he’s lovely, and say, “You’re both great. Wanna stay?”

He ignores me, although he’s grinning. “Adri, listen to me. I’m going to get you into bed, but I’m going to get this dress off you because it’s not safe to sleep in. OK?”

“Gonna take my clothes off,” I say. “Great. We can have a shag.”

I flop backwards onto the bed so as to give him better access. John giggles again for reasons I can’t understand, rolls me on my front and undoes the back of the dress, unclipping my bra at the same time. His hands on my skin feel nice and I hum. “’S good. Touch me some more.”

John makes a choking sound from behind me and pulls my dress down, bra and all. “Wheeee!” I shout. He giggles again and I think I heard Sherlock groan, so I roll on my back to look at him. “’S funny, Sherlock. John’s funny.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and says, “John.”

“Yeah, I think we’re done,” John says, still giggling a bit. I frown. “Nyou’re not. Forgot my tights.”

He looks me over appreciatively a moment, still grinning. “I think you’ll be OK, Adri.”

With a miffed frown I pout at him and he shakes his head. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

I giggle. “Make me.”

John straightens up and laughs, putting his hand to his forehead in an exasperated movement. “Sherlock, some help please?”

There is an audible sigh from Sherlock as he takes off his coat and hangs it on my bedroom door. Then he crosses the room in two easy strides, as quick as a cat. He stops in front of me, looking down, imposing. His face is entirely serious as he scans me a moment and finishes at my eyes. “Get up.”

I gulp, suddenly feeling very exposed and ridiculously aroused. I manage to stagger to my feet and stand there, swaying. “Fuck.”

Sherlock holds my eyes a moment, and then says, “No.”

I’m not sure what happens next. I can feel his hands on me, and his leg twisting around mine, and then I’m flying through the air. I land perfectly straight on my bed with my head on my pillow, gasping for air. Sherlock pulls the cover over me and then straightens his jacket. “There.”

John’s eyebrows are wedged halfway up his forehead, his mouth slightly open in amazement. “Impressive.”

Sherlock shrugs, turns round and gets his coat. I haven’t quite recovered from the shock yet, wondering what just happened, but I don’t get a chance to say anything. Sherlock motions for John to follow, flicking the light switch on the way out. “Good night, Adriane.” 

\--ooOoo--

It is the throbbing of my head that wakes me up the next morning. For a second or two I wonder why I am feeling so awful, and then the memories of the night before flood over me. I groan and bury my head under the pillow, wishing I could just die.

After an hour or so it becomes apparent that I am still very much alive. I get up gingerly, holding my head, and slowly make my way to the bathroom. When I get there I find that somebody has already put a glass of water and two painkillers out. John, at a guess. I take them gratefully and walk into the kitchen to make tea. The kettle is already full, and there is a mug with a teabag in it next to it. I feel very grateful to John and Sherlock up to the point that I notice my telephone next to it, message light flashing.

For at least a full minute I stare at it in dread. Then I pick it up and checking the message.

“There is no need to apologise by text. I will have your apology in person tonight. 6PM, 221B. You are cooking. SH.

I just stare at the text for a long time, trying to make sense of it. I can’t work out whether Sherlock is angry but I guess he is. I don’t understand why he is getting me to cook. I’m worried that he’s getting me to come two whole hours earlier. I’m nervous in advance about having to face both him and John after the complete idiot I made of myself last night. After ten minutes of pointless contemplation I am still no closer to understanding it, and no less nervous.

Eventually I decide there is not much point worrying about it. My only other option is to phone Sherlock for an explanation and not a single hair on my head is about to contemplate that. Instead I try to think about what I might cook. Unfortunately my brain is still pounding, not helped at all by being nervous, and I can’t focus at all. It is well after lunchtime before I begin to feel vaguely normal again, and by this time I have made a plan that will allow me as much rest as possible. I make sure I take it.

At a quarter past five I get my things together. My outfit for tonight is still at Baker Street as far as I know so there isn’t all that much to take. I try to drag it out as much as I can, but eventually I have to admit to myself that I am stalling for time. With a final deep breath I make my way outside and pull the door shut.

The trip past the local supermarket takes much less time than I had anticipated, all the buses are running early and I find myself hanging around the top end of Baker Street carrying two shopping bags with no particular purpose at twenty to six. I am just contemplating going for a coffee when my phone beeps.

“You might as well come up. SH.”

I don’t even wonder how he knows where I am. Instead I walk the length of the street, resigned and wondering what the night is going to hold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I require you to accompany me on a case. John has regretfully declined,” Sherlock says.
> 
> I change my mind. This really doesn’t sound good. Vaguely I ask, to the room in general, “Why?”
> 
> John snorts. “Because I refuse to dress up in black latex like some gay porn icon to spend the night at an S&M dive, regardless of how crucial it might be to solving a murder case.”

The door is unlocked when I get to 221B. I knock anyway, but nobody comes to answer it so I take the hint and make my own way inside and upstairs. I hesitate only a moment before knocking on the door of the flat; there really is no point in dragging this out, and I’m sure Sherlock knows I’m here anyway.

“Come.”

The single word uttered in Sherlock’s deep voice redoubles my nervousness. I really wish John could have opened the door. I could do with seeing a friendly face. Steeling myself I push the door open, trying to look outwardly calm.

Sherlock is seated in his chair, reading. As I come in he puts the book down and gestures to the chair opposite. I look around to see where John is, but Sherlock says, “John’s out, and so is Mrs. Hudson. Sit down, Adriane.”

He sounds calm, but then he nearly always sounds calm. It doesn’t make me feel any better. In the back of my mind I wonder if the house is empty on purpose, which also doesn’t help at all. I sit down and force myself to look at him. He’s regarding me calmly, without a single flicker of emotion, impossible to read. I take a deep breath and then say, “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“What for?”

For a moment I am speechless. “What?”

He shifts his seat ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving my face, focused. “You heard me. Tell me what you are apologising for.”

He’s deadly serious. I had very much hoped that we could get through this without any actual grovelling on my part, but it appears he wants to squeeze every last ounce of embarrassment out of this. I swallow and say, “I’m sorry for getting stupidly drunk and saying unforgivable things about you and John and for making a complete idiot of myself.”

“No.”

That has me flummoxed totally. “Oh. No?”

“Try again.”

I’m aware I’m just staring at him, and after a while I close my mouth and try to think of an answer. If I’m honest my memory of the events of the night is a bit fuzzy. There are, however, a few things that stand out painfully. “Eh, for propositioning you and John together?”

“No. Think.”

I’m completely lost. “For calling you both delusional?”

“You’re clutching at straws.”

Unfortunately he’s right. I have no idea what he’s getting at. “I don’t know, Sherlock. What am I apologising for?”

He straightens up a little, still fixing me with his eyes. “You took an off-the-cuff, hateful epithet that my brother put on you, in a remark which I specifically told you to ignore, and not only applied it willingly to yourself but also naively assumed that I share or approve of Mycroft’s opinion. I am disappointed that you appear to think I hold you in such low esteem and I will not accept you tarring me with the same brush as him. As for yourself, you are showing a shocking lack of self-respect.”

It takes long seconds for me to appreciate what he is saying. Then the realisation that he is actually being _nice_ , in his own painful and inimitable way, that this is him being protective, hits me full on. “Oh.”

I struggle a moment to get my feelings under control. Part of me wants to just go over and hug him, while the more sensible part is aware that he is actually quite serious and is waiting for an apology. It is an easy one to give, now.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” I’m really not sure what else there is to say, but I add, “Thank you.”

“Hm.” He contemplates me a moment longer, then adds, “I can’t take offence to you getting drunk when that was the explicit aim of John’s actions and I could have intervened at any time. The embarrassment is entirely yours. Besides, there was nothing new or shocking in what you told him, and maybe some of those things needed to be said. In fact I appreciate it that you managed to maintain some discretion.”

Thinking about it, I guess I could have said some pretty disastrous things if I’d decided to tell John how Sherlock really feels, but I really can’t be sure that I would have kept it to myself if Sherlock hadn’t intervened. I’m worried he’s giving me far too much credit, so I look down at my shoes and say nothing.

Sherlock continues. “As for the rest of it, none of it came as a great surprise. Although the Dirty Goblin Song was new to me.”

I look at him. Although his face is still serious, there is a noticeable sparkle in his eyes. I blush and clear my throat. “Ehm. Did I sing all of it?”

“Yes.” He’s definitely sounding amused now. I groan. Then, to take my mind off it I turn to the important thing I needed to say. “Thank you for taking care of me last night.” I hope he understands what I mean. I realise they could have done pretty much anything to me with the state I was in, and that in fact I was inviting it, and I am eternally grateful that they didn’t.

He answers the underlying meaning rather than my words. “You were in no state to consent.”

I continue looking at him, waiting for something along the lines of ‘Besides, I’d never partake in such a thing’, but it doesn’t come. In the end I look away, trying to keep from blushing madly at the thought that he wouldn’t even blink at the idea of a threesome with John. When I look back up he is smiling slightly. “It is not something I was planning on.”

I feel a sudden urgent need to change the subject. “Why am I cooking?”

He gets up, discussion over as far as he’s concerned by the look of it, and walks over to my shopping bags. “I need you relaxed and confident tonight, Adriane, not a gibbering nervous wreck. Ah, steak.”

 

\--ooOoo--

 

While I am sorting out the meal John comes in. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen when he sees me. “Hello, floozy.”

It’s said in an affectionate tone and I have to smile. Even so, I say, “I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that that is an unacceptable tag and that I need to think better of myself.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Did Sherlock say that?”

I nod, and the smile he gives me in response is positively radiant. “Quite right too. Good on him.”

He’s glowing with pride as he looks back into the lounge. From where I am standing I can see Sherlock look up from his book a moment. “I’m not inhuman, John,” he says before returning his eyes to his book again. John turns back to me, rolling his eyes.

“Thanks for putting me to bed last night,” I say. “I’m sorry I got so silly.”

John looks at me seriously a moment. “I hate to say this, but I should have listened to Sherlock.” From the living room there is the distinct sound of Sherlock clearing his throat pointedly, and John smiles and shakes his head. Then he looks back at me. “I’m sorry I got you into that situation. And as a doctor and a friend I should tell you to watch how much you drink.”

“I know. Thanks.” 

\--ooOoo--

 

After dinner Sherlock disappears into his room and I help John clear the dishes. I nearly drop the plate I’m holding when Sherlock reappears after about ten minutes wearing an obscenely tight pair of leather trousers and a beautiful, slightly historic-looking white silk shirt with cuffless long sleeves and a lace-up neck which he has left open, showing his pale skin. His hair is tousled up from changing and he looks absolutely stunning, like he has just walked off a movie set. After a while he gives me a slight smile and says, “Adriane, you’re staring.”

I manage to stammer, “Hngh yessorry,” before tearing my eyes away from him onto John, who is looking at Sherlock appreciatively. “You know, you’d make an excellent pirate. All you need is a hat.”

“It’s a fetish club, John, not a role-playing party. But, unfortunately, tonight’s venue does not allow suits. Although in Adriane’s case that appears to be a distinct advantage.”

It’s only just dawning on me that we’re not going to Dom’s club tonight, that he only opens on Fridays, and that this means we’ll be somewhere else. While I’m thinking about it Sherlock says, “You need to get changed.”

It brings me back to the here and now. Sherlock gestures to his own room and I make my way over, still feeling a bit ditzy and also a little cross with myself for being so easily impressed. To my surprise he follows me in.

My PVC corset is nowhere to be seen, but there are a couple of bags on the bed that Sherlock begins to take things out of. There is an elaborate purple and black brocade corset, a matching thong that manages to incorporate a surprising amount of lace given its size, and a pair of beautiful lace top tights. It’s a spectacular outfit, matching very well in style what Sherlock has chosen for himself. I try not to think about what it might have cost. “That’s beautiful. But I’ve already got a corset.”

Sherlock shrugs. “You can’t be seen to only have one set of clothes. Besides, we’d clash terribly.” He picks up the corset. “Put it on, please.”

It’s funny; where two weeks ago I would have been in a right state at this point, now I just do what he’s asked without even thinking much about it. He’s watching me as I get undressed but in a detached kind of way, and I find I don’t mind it much. What does unsettle me, however, are his new clothes. The way the half-open front of the shirt exposes part of his collar bone, and how his long wrists are extending from the sleeves is totally distracting, not to speak about those trousers. I am having trouble not to stare.

“Adriane, you’re doing it again.”

I hadn’t realised that thinking about it had stopped me moving altogether, and I finish taking off the sock. “Sorry. You do look amazing.”

Sherlock smiles, a little surprised. “Thank you.”

I suddenly feel a bit awkward for being so honest, but he rescues the situation by getting me to step forward into the corset before he laces up the back. It really is a fabulous thing, properly boned and totally sumptuous. It makes me feel like I’ve stepped back in time a hundred years or so. It’s also completely over the top for a single night out. “Sherlock, that’s far too beautiful. I’ll end up ruining it.”

His face creases into a little lopsided grin as he turns me around. “No, it is very likely that _I_ will end up ruining it. But you are wrong, it looks good on you. And you may keep it if you wish.”

Now he’s got me blushing again with the thought that he is calmly planning to do unspeakable things to me tonight, and with the offhand compliment. To hide my embarrassment and arousal I get on with the thong and tights. Meanwhile Sherlock magics my shoes from somewhere and finally puts the leather collar around my neck. Then he gives me an approving look over. “Let’s pass you by John.”

John is still in the kitchen, drying the last few bits of cutlery. Sherlock lets me go in first, and it’s funny to see John’s reaction as he registers the outfit. He manages to keep his mouth closed this time but inadvertently ends up dropping a couple of spoons on the floor. “Wow. You look amazing. You both do, actually. Yeah.”

He flusters and bends down to pick up the spoons. When he straightens up again he seems to have found a bit of composure. “Make sure nobody runs off with her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. “They’d be fools to try.” After a moment he adds, “And in any case I am hoping that Adriane will be rather too… tied up tonight.”

He walks past me to the lounge with a spring in his step, leaving John and me gaping at each other. Eventually John says, “He’s enjoying this, isn’t he.”

I can only nod at him. “Wish me luck.”

John puts everything down and comes over to me, drawing me into one of his big hugs. “Look after yourself, Adri. Make sure he doesn’t make you do anything stupid.”

I promise, and after a while he lets me go. “I do believe Sherlock is waiting for you.”

I’m trying not to show quite how nervous I have suddenly become. In the last few minutes I have begun to wonder whether there is a reason Sherlock is being so incredibly nice and complimentary, and the only one I can find is that he is lulling me into a false sense of security. As he said before, he wants me relaxed and confident. I can only wonder why.

Sherlock is waiting in the lounge, offering me my coat when I come in. “Ready?”

I nod, suddenly finding it hard to form any words. He looks at me a moment, then picks up a small black bag that is lying on one of the chairs and opens the door. “After you.”

It’s the first time that he has brought anything along and I can’t help eyeing up the bag as we are waiting for a taxi, wondering what’s in it, worrying about what he is planning. If Sherlock notices it he doesn’t comment.

In the taxi he lets me stew for a while, until I can’t contain myself any longer. “Sherlock, are you… “

I don’t even get the chance to finish my sentence before he responds with a very calm, “Yes.”

That doesn’t help at all. He may think he knew what I was going to ask him, but at the same time I could be jumping to all the wrong conclusions. I stare at him. “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

He smiles dismissively. “You were going to ask if I was going to do a public scene, just as you have done the last two times we have been out. The answer is yes.”

“Oh.” My nervousness instantly doubles if not triples. I know we have covered an awful lot of ground in the last two weeks, but I simply don’t know if I’m ready for this.

Sherlock looks back at me, eyeing me up a moment. Then he says, “This case gets colder with every day that passes, Adriane. There simply isn’t enough time to wait another month. We have a perfect opportunity tonight to convince Dominic to tell us what he knows.”

I try telling myself once again there’s a killer on the loose and this isn’t a game, that there is a purpose to these nights out. Unfortunately it makes very little difference to the way I feel.

“You’re still nervous.”

I nod, wondering how he thought I wouldn’t be.

“Tell me what else I could do to make you less nervous.”

I don’t have to think about that for very long. “Not taking me at all.”

“Not an option.”

“I know,” I answer, thinking again. I’m really not sure there is much point to this. “By telling me exactly what you’re going to do tonight.”

He considers this a moment, looking at the ceiling of the cab with his eyes narrowed as if he is reviewing his plans for the night. Then he says, glancing back to me, “No, I don’t think that would help.”

I can’t work out if it’s a joke or whether that was serious. I swallow nervously, trying not to let him get to me.

“Anything else?”

“You could tell me what’s in the bag.”

Now he’s smiling, fixing me in a most unsettling way. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

I blush and look away, feeling way out of my depth again. If Sherlock thought that conversation was going to calm me down he was mistaken. I’m almost shaking with nerves now.

“Adriane.” Sherlock sounds serious, and it makes me look back at him. He looks as genuine as he sounded. “I promise you that I will make every effort to ensure you enjoy this.”

I take a deep breath and try to believe him. “Thank you.”

 

\--ooOoo--

 

The taxi pulls up outside a stylish looking nightclub. We’re in one of the usual clubbing districts, and I’m surprised to find a BDSM club this publicly accessible. “I didn’t realise there was a fetish club here,” I say, looking around. I’m sure I’ve been out here before and I have never noticed it.

“It’s only held once a month,” Sherlock says. “On other nights it’s a regular nightclub.”

He leads the way in and we stop to drop our coats off. The lady at the entrance insists on checking the bag but Sherlock makes sure I don’t get to have a peek inside, subtly blocking my view the whole time. It is with a very smug expression that he finally takes me into the club.

I have to be honest, I’m suddenly glad that we are dressed as well as we are. It is clear that in contrast to Dom’s place this venue puts a lot of emphasis on what its customers look like. While the clubbers are still of every shape, size and age, the outfits are diverse, elaborate and outrageous in places. There is a predominance of black leather and latex, with a good amount of brightly coloured PVC thrown in. Here and there I spot small explosions of lace and fishnet. There is a lot of bare skin on display. The hair and makeup of some of the clubbers warrants a study of its own, along with the elaborate tattoos and piercings of some of them. It’s obvious that most people have put a lot of effort in. I’m trying very hard not to stare, but there is so much to look at.

Mindful of what happened last time I follow Sherlock to the bar. He gets drinks, leans back against the bar and scans the room. “You have permission to ogle,” he says, off-hand. “Showing off is half the reason people come here.”

It takes me a moment to get past the colourful public to have a good look at the place we are in. It’s a little bigger than Dom’s club and has a small dance floor at the back. Other than that the setup is similar, with equipment dotted around the room and the odd comfortable looking breakout area. A fair few of the pieces of equipment are in use, but the majority of the clubbers seem to be in the early stages of their evening, catching up on the gossip by the look of it. I can’t help but notice that Sherlock gets his fair share of appreciative looks and it makes me feel unreasonably jealous.

Sherlock seems lost in thought and in no mood for light conversation, so to take my mind off things I try and play a game of spot-the-Dom with myself. While I am trying to decide who is who in a rather casually-dressed lesbian couple I spot a familiar face. Andy is making his way over to the bar, closely followed by Jen.

I didn’t think Jen’s clothes could get any more outrageous, but she’s wearing a bright pink cupless corset that shows off her bare breasts in all their glory, with neon green fishnets that disappear into a pair of shiny red knee-length boots with the pointiest heels I’ve ever seen. Her hair has been dyed a vivid purple and the whole outfit, complemented by some multicoloured makeup, has a distinct Madonna-gone-wrong look about it. Unbelievably she pulls it off with ease. Andrew, on the other hand, has settled on the kind of thing he always seems to wear – well-worn leather trousers, black shirt, no frills.

When they see us Andy makes a beeline for Sherlock. Jen practically throws herself at him, hugging Sherlock before kissing him on the cheek. When she draws back Sherlock looks at her with amusement. “Jennifer.”

She gives him the most dazzling smile. “Hi Sherlock.” Then she turns to me and pretty much repeats the routine. Before long she has me grinning. It’s very hard to be anything but cheerful around her, the way she carries the party atmosphere with her. Meanwhile Andy says hi and positions himself next to Sherlock, and within minutes they are deep in conversation. I can’t hear what they’re discussing though, as Jen has taken my hand and is busy trying to drag me off to the dance floor. I’ve no idea whether that’s OK or not but as I look across to Sherlock he gives me a brief nod, and I allow myself to be taken off.

Jen, as usual, is easy company and I find myself getting caught up in dancing with her and at the same time admiring the people around us. It’s clear that although the club is pretty serious about its fetish credentials some people just come here to have a good time. At first I’m a little worried that two girls out on their own, dressed as provocatively as we are, might attract some unwanted attention, but although we are shot the occasional appreciative glance most people appear to have come in pairs. I guess single males are not encouraged for exactly that reason.

After a while we are joined on the dance floor by some friends of Jen’s, and she rattles off their names so quickly that I barely catch them. Instead of asking for a repeat I give a friendly wave, thinking that I’m unlikely to be meeting them again anyway. I’m a little surprised at how upset I am at the thought that this is probably the last time we’re venturing out onto the fetish scene.

Not much time to think as Jen orchestrates some complicated dance routine that ends up having us all in stitches. I’m still laughing as I’m backing away from a tangle made up of Jen and one of her girlfriends dancing towards me. By complete accident I bump heavily into somebody, backwards, and nearly trip and fall over. Strong hands quickly catch me and keep me upright. As I turn around to apologise, flustered, I realise it’s Sherlock. “Having fun?”

He’s looking relaxed, for all the world as if he is enjoying the night out. I may be wrong and he might be, but I do know that we are really not here for the fun. Even so I smile at him once I have recovered a bit. “Yes, I am, actually.”

“Good. Ten minutes.”

I stare at him blankly. “Ten minutes for what?”

“Ten minutes before we are going to do something else. Dominic arrived some time ago.”

“Oh.” I’m trying to keep my composure. It’s not like I didn’t know this was going to happen. “OK.”

Sherlock gives me a funny little smile and walks off again. I’m left feeling a bit weird, like I’m waiting to go to the dentist. Thankfully Jen comes to my rescue.

“You’re not staying there pining after Sherlock. Come on.” She grabs my arm and steers me back to the dance floor. I’m not about to tell her that I wasn’t pining but panicking.

Spot on ten minutes later Sherlock reappears at the side of the dance floor. For a moment I wonder whether to wait for him to actually say something or gesture for me to come over, but his stance makes it clear he is waiting so I quickly make my excuses and join him, nervously.

“Good. Come with me.”

I wasn’t aware that was a test. The realisation that he is quite serious about this when we are in these places hits me once again and I am grateful I didn’t draw him out. At the same time I feel suddenly calmer, because he has taken charge and there is very little I have to do other than follow. By now my trust in him is no longer in question.

We stop at one of the breakout areas. Dom is there, and he greets Sherlock cordially. Sherlock returns the greeting but does not make any move to sit down.

“Aren’t you staying?” Dom asks curiously. Sherlock shakes his head. “Later, maybe. I have business to attend to first.”

Dom raises his eyebrows. “Business?”

In response Sherlock glances over to me. “Well, I say business… “

“Oh,” Dom says, a sly smile spreading over his face. “I see.”

Sherlock gives him a nod and then walks off with an “Adriane.”

I totter after him, feeling very much like a pawn in a game, wondering what he’s planned. He stops at a St. Andrew’s cross on the edge of the main room. It looks like a scene has just finished here - a very smartly dressed middle-aged lady is quietly speaking with a grizzled gentleman, who has his arm wrapped protectively around a younger girl with a dazed look on her face. When we approach they move aside, and the lady says, “It’s clean.”

Sherlock nods and says thank you. Then he turns to me and says quietly, “House Domme. They’re here to help, in any way you might require.”

I’m not sure he means what I think he means, but when I see the lady pack away an impressive set of floggers into a small case I realise it is exactly that. “Oh.”

Sherlock gives me a wry smile. “I’ve told you before I didn’t think much to your previous choice of boyfriends. While they seemed all to keen to inflict pain on you, every single one of them has neglected your basic education. Something that we may remedy a little tonight.”

I blink at him, looking for some meaning to his words. Instead of saying anything else Sherlock puts the bag down on a small table to the side of the cross, then comes back, gets me to turn around and calmly begins to unlace the corset. By now I am too wired to ask him what he’s doing; it’s all too obvious, and the inevitability of the whole thing is paralysing and arousing in equal measure. He casually pulls down my thong and gets me to step out of it.

He puts the corset and thong aside with the bag when he’s finished. I’m distracted by a feeling of nakedness and exposure, made much worse by the small group of clubbers that has begun to gather to watch the action, albeit at a respectful distance. Sherlock comes back and gives me a quick look over. “Problem?”

I look at him, wondering how he can not understand the enormity of the problem. “Sherlock, everyone’s staring.”

He smiles, a calm, relaxed smile that conveys complete indifference. “That is partly the point of a public scene, Adriane. And one that it is my job to make you forget all about. Look at me.”

Although I was kind of looking at him it pulls me up. I look at him, _really_ look at him, and he holds my gaze for a long moment, serious now. His intense focus is overwhelming and I find myself drawn in, everything else dropping away in that instant as my breath hitches. “Good,” he says quietly, taking my chin in his hand. “You see, those people are irrelevant. The only thing that matters at this moment is me.”

I am nearly blown away by his total confidence as my legs turn wobbly. I manage, “Hng” before he leans over and kisses me gently, obliterating any remaining rational thoughts I may have had. When he pulls away he looks at me a moment and smiles. Then he turns serious once more.

“Now then. Pain.”

If I wasn’t focused on him already that really has me paying attention. “Wh… what about it?”

“It is not something that we have explored.”

I am not comfortable about where this is going at all. “I think we have.” Quite apart from the experiments that Sherlock has involved me in which have on occasion been extremely painful, two episodes of him taking a riding crop to me have left a permanent and painful memory.

He is not put off in the slightest. “Not in the erotic sense.”

Worry is starting to take over now. “There is nothing enjoyable about pain.”

“That,” he says, his face still serious but with a distinct glint in his eye, “is where you are wrong.”

He moves in close to me and runs his hand down my front, nails catching slightly on my skin, causing an involuntary shiver. He smiles at my obvious reaction, and adds, “Which I will demonstrate.”

I take a deep breath, trying to grips with what he’s doing. He’s watching me closely, gauging my reactions. “Amber, Sherlock,” I say.

Sherlock just nods. “Noted. And expected.”

Again his casualness has me reeling and it takes my thoughts off things to such an extent that it takes me a moment to realise he is slowly manoeuvring me towards the cross. The fact I hadn’t really noticed his hands on my skin goes to show just how far out I am. He hasn’t even done anything yet.

Sherlock gets me to stand at the St. Andrew’s cross facing away from him and quickly straps me to the thing. As he goes about it he is touching me nearly continually, reassuring, maintaining contact. Since he is behind me I can’t see what he is doing and I feel a bit lost, not knowing where to look, trying not to make eye contact with the people who are watching on this side of the cross, feeling increasingly vulnerable and exposed as I become more and more unable to move. I am trying to ignore quite how aroused I am getting, telling myself that I shouldn’t be. Suddenly Sherlock appears in front of me, examining my face briefly, his fingers trailing over my chest in an absent-minded way. I wonder if he’s aware that he’s setting off fireworks. “I would offer you a blindfold but that really defeats the object of the whole exercise. However, you are welcome to close your eyes.”

Before I have a chance to say anything back he has ducked behind me again in a flash of black and white, trailing his hand over my arm and around my back as he does so, causing my body to shudder. He reappears on the side where the table is. I’m mesmerised by the way he moves, as graceful as a cat, and once again I find myself just staring at him, forgetting my surroundings for a moment.

Sherlock is looking through the bag and after a moment pulls out a flogger and his Wartenberg wheel and puts them both out on the table. While I appreciate that what he is doing is very much a piece of theatre it works all too well on me. My gaze is drawn inexorably to the wheel and stays there as I try to control my breathing. _At least the bag is far too small to hold a riding crop_ , I think. The thought calms me down a little.

He picks up the flogger and comes over, showing it to me. “You are familiar with these, at least.”

I nod. I am, and I am also fairly indifferent to them. From my experience they are not the most painful thing available. The leather on this one looks fairly soft.

“Good. And you are missing the point. It is not the amount of pain which is the objective here. If that was the case I could just bring out the riding crop.”

I ignore the fact he just read my mind and say, “You couldn’t fit a riding crop in that bag.”

He gives me a very amused smile but doesn’t answer. Instead he walks back to the bag and takes out a small cylindrical thing, weighing it in his hand and giving it a little mid-air twirl. Making sure I am taking notice he takes hold of both ends and slowly pulls until the thing has extended into a full-length riding crop. Then, with a look of intense satisfaction he puts it neatly down on the table. “Wrong.”

I swallow, lost for words for the moment as he picks up the flogger again and walks over. “I did tell you never to assume anything, Adriane. That hasn’t changed.”

Stroking my skin, he adds, very quietly, “Isn’t it strange that you make yourself believe that you are just putting up with this, pretending that you have been coerced into this situation, that I am forcing you. When we both know that you crave it, and that it is the uncertainty and fear and your submission to it that makes you feel alive.” He looks at me, through me with narrowed eyes, his focus almost a physical force. I find it impossible to look away or deny the truth of what he is saying as he leans over and whispers, “Time to stop pretending.”

Something gives then, because at the core it is true, and it is the reason why I am here with him tonight, why I keep coming back. I can’t look at him as my body relaxes with a shudder, giving in to the experience. From beside me, Sherlock says, “Now, let’s see if we can make you fly.”

There isn’t time to ask what he means as he lifts up his arm and brings down the flogger in a graceful arc, catching me squarely on the bottom as he moves away behind me. It lands with a resounding _thwack_ and more of a sting than I expected. I inhale sharply as the pain registers briefly, but it quickly dissolves into a warm glow.

The next thing I feel is the strands of the flogger being trailed over my back and buttocks. The cool leather makes for a sensual feeling on my body and I find myself indulging in it, closing my eyes to enjoy the sensation and quietly wondering where this is going. Suddenly the flogger is lifted away, only to come down with another loud thwack on my other buttock.

Before I have time to react to the sting I feel Sherlock’s hand on my skin, stroking my back and side. The combination of sensations is confusing and I struggle to suppress a moan. Then the leather of the flogger is back, trailing slow patterns over my back and shoulders, mixing with the feeling of Sherlock’s fingertips.

All I can think is this isn’t pain, this is sheer seduction, and my body is more than happy to give into it. Then the flogger is lifted away again and he lays down another lash, this time across my shoulders. It registers as a heavy impact but nothing much else, and he follows it with several more lashes, working his way down my back.

It is hard to explain how I am feeling. While I know that what he is doing should be hurting, it simply doesn’t. He’s either very skilful or adrenaline is taking over, because all I am getting is the buzz of increasing arousal and a warm fuzzy feeling as the lashes move over my body. Their impact is indescribably cathartic and strangely comforting in an odd way. I can’t make sense of my own reactions but that, also, feels OK.

The flogger disappears and nothing happens for a moment. I realise that I have closed my eyes and am just about to open them when the feeling of leather strands trailing on my skin returns and I relax. A second later my body is suddenly taken over by a sharp series of pinpricks, burning in their intensity, making their way rapidly up my side. I gasp, but before I have time to react properly the strands of the flogger are back, trailing where the pins of the wheel just were. Then, before I have time to relax into that the flogger is lifted away and lands with another resounding slap on my buttocks, and again, and again. He repeats the pattern on the other side of my body and it doesn’t make any more sense the second time around.

Suddenly everything stops and I am left reeling, trying to come to grips with the multiple sensations coursing around my body. When nothing happens for some time I open my eyes to find Sherlock standing in front of me, calmly observing. “A colour, please, Adriane.”

It takes me some time to find any words at all. “Jesus fuck green,” is what I manage in the end before I close my eyes again, unable to deal with him, knowing that he will be flashing me an impossibly smug look.

The next thing I feel are Sherlock’s fingertips on my skin again, trailing a trace over my body, but after a while in the wake of his fingers follow the pins of the Wartenberg wheel. I have become completely still because it is the oddest sensation, the wrong way round somehow, with the wheel leaving tiny pinpricks of agony where before there was comfort. Without a doubt the feeling is delicious and I am surprised to have to admit it to myself.

By now I am feeling a little detached from my body, a strange floating feeling that is completely different from the withdrawal I am familiar with when I normally experience pain. I’m vaguely aware that I am emitting a steady stream of small moans, but not really consciously in control of it. Sherlock continues the trace around my skin and it takes me far too long to work out that at some point he has stopped trailing with his fingers and is now just using the wheel. I am indifferent, truly too far out to care. My body is translating the pain into something else completely that I don’t understand at all, but it is good, and I am soaring.

When the pins of the Wartenberg wheel disappear I stay there in a state of suspension, no longer able to focus or come back down but just waiting for the next thing. It comes as small taps with a cool hard thing, which I vaguely recognise as the tongue of a riding crop, all over my back. A small part of my mind is trying to tell me to worry, but the rest of me is more than happy to go along with this.

The taps stop, and I am left in anticipation of a lash, my body tingling now, wondering where it will hit. There is a loud _thwack_ and I brace myself for pain, but then realise that there is none, because that was the flogger. For reasons I can’t quite understand I moan in frustration as the taps return and I am left wondering when he will use the riding crop properly.

Once again the flogger comes down and I moan, aching for more, but after that nothing happens. Suddenly I feel Sherlock’s fingers on my throat as his voice comes very close to my face, “Adriane.”

It’s hard to respond now and an effort to open my eyes, but I manage to lift my head and gaze up at him. He’s studying me, concentrated, intense. I look at him, wanting him to understand how I’m feeling, and in the end settle on, “Fuckit, more.”

His face doesn’t change as he says, “Very well.” Then he runs his hand down over my eyes and I close them again, drifting back to where I was as his fingers trail over my throat and disappear.

The taps return, briefly, before he lifts the riding crop up and brings it down on one of my buttocks, a short, sharp slap. It isn’t very hard, but even so the pain shoots through me like a firework, beautiful, and my body shudders as a warm glow begins to spread from where it hit me. Now he is trailing the tongue of the crop over my back, lifting it up once more and bringing it down on the other buttock, a little harder, white hot pain standing out on my skin for a moment before dissolving into heat.

The next lash is slightly harder again but it just adds to the buzz, the pain welcome, the heat that follows a comforting contrast. The lashes keep coming in a slow, steady rhythm. Where I was floating a little before I feel almost completely detached now, as if my body belongs to a different reality. I am beginning to anticipate what is happening when suddenly there is the flogger, adding a completely unexpected thudding _thwack_ , and a temporary lack of pain.

Just as I am getting to grips with the change the riding crop returns on my buttocks, back to the rhythm as it was, streaks of hot pain, slightly unreal. Then another change: this time it is Sherlock’s hand stroking my skin, a brief point of total comfort, completely confusing, before another lash of the crop. He repeats the routine, occasionally substituting the riding crop with the flogger, a soft touch, nails, throwing me off balance as soon as I think I can predict what is about to happen.

As he continues I am becoming increasingly unaware of my body. His pattern is too random to anticipate and so after a while I give up and let go of that, too, and it is like passing a final barrier. I literally feel as if I am flying, completely careless, no longer afraid or self-conscious, or in fact registering the pain. It is freedom, in the strangest and most contradictory way possible.

I am not sure how long after Sherlock finishes I realise that he has. It is a soft kiss on my shoulder that brings me round a little. He is stroking my back gently, a light, comforting touch. “Adriane, come back.”

I shudder, returning a bit more to the here and now. From where he is standing I can’t see him at all but his presence is reassuring and I don’t need anything else at this moment. I am still in a state of extreme relaxation, nothing feeling quite real as yet. We stay like that for some time until I feel at least slightly in touch with my body again.

“There is something else you have wondered about,” he says quietly, his fingers trailing a slow circle over my back. “I have seen you look at my hands, Adriane, when you think I’m not watching.”

I’m beginning to see where this is going, and it suddenly brings into focus how turned on I am, something that was previously eclipsed by my reaction to Sherlock’s ministrations with the riding crop. The vague thought that there are no secrets where he is concerned crosses my mind but it is almost beside the point, something I should have been aware of by now. My thoughts, blurred as they are, are interrupted by Sherlock’s hand slowly moving down. “Given the current situation I believe we have the time for a little experiment,” he murmurs. “Would you like me to try?”

 _He’s actually asking me_ , it filters through slowly. By now I am feeling achingly aroused, and I am still hardly able to string two words together. “Hng yes fuck careful,” I throw out, hoping it makes any sense at all. Sherlock gives a low chuckle, and then softly says, “Trust me.”

There is no answer to that so close I my eyes, giving over to him to do as he wishes. His right hand trails down, one, two fingers entering me with ease, his other hand stroking my back and side. I moan as he slides in a third finger, stretching me. I am relaxed to the point of being limp, totally open to him, and very, very wet. My mind is empty of all thought and I am only experiencing, feeling, and breathing.

Something changes in the position of his fingers that I can’t quite make sense of, and then he is pushing into me ever so slowly, a constant inexorable pressure that is stretching me bit by bit as his hand enters me. I moan again as I realise what he is doing. With his thumb tucked in there is nothing to stop him pushing his whole hand in other than the sheer physical limitations of the size of my body and that of his. I don’t think it will fit.

At the thought I tense up and he stops immediately, leaving his fingers where they are but taking off the pressure. He’s still stroking me with his other hand, reassuring, soothing, and it doesn’t take long for me to adjust to the amazing feeling of him inside me, stretching and filling me, and to relax again. As I do so he resumes his steady push, and I can feel him slowly entering me deeper.

My body is willing him to go further now, wanting all of him inside me, no longer concerned about can or can’t. The feeling of me stretching around his hand is nothing like anything I have experienced. It is impossible to describe it as painful or pleasurable because it is so intense it is both, and it is almost as if there is no space for anything else left for me to feel.

He’s stopped pushing now, and it allows me a moment to appreciate the situation I am in, the strangeness of it registering for an instant before the sheer sensation of it takes over again when Sherlock begins to move his hand, ever so slightly, the feeling exploding through me with every small movement. The pins of the Wartenberg wheel on my flank barely register after that, at least at first, until suddenly Sherlock twists his hand just so and the complete overload of sensation takes over my body and I crash into orgasm, no doubt screaming.

 

\--ooOoo--

 

“Adriane.”

Sherlock’s voice comes from far away, and I am of half a mind to ignore him.

“Adriane, I need my hand back.”

For a second I have no idea what he is talking about, then it clicks into place as I reconnect to my surroundings. I’m still where I was, but more disconcertingly Sherlock’s hand is still where it was, now painfully inside me as my muscles have contracted strongly on him. “Oh. _Ow_.”

It’s too much after everything that has happened tonight, and the absurdity of the whole thing overwhelms me as I turn into a giggly mess. I’m not sure he can see the humour of the situation, but I’ve got it badly. While I am giggling Sherlock carefully extracts his hand. It isn’t as bad as I thought, one more little bit of pain that is pretty much irrelevant in the big scheme of things.

I’ve managed to calm down a bit by the time he has unstrapped me and is helping me stand up. My knees are awfully weak and I feel giddy and light-headed and still a bit silly, as well as pretty sore. Suddenly Jen is there on the other side, taking my arm. “I’ll take her, Sherlock, you get your stuff together.”

Sherlock gives her a curt thank you and passes me over. I’m pretty happy either way, just wanting to sit down now, or preferably sleep. After helping me back into the corset and thong Jen leads me carefully to one of the sofas across the room and sits me down. “You OK?”

I nod and say yes, thank you. She grins. “That looked good. Was it good?”

I exhale heavily. “That was better than drugs.”

“How would you know?” Sherlock’s voice cuts in from behind us. I didn’t realise he had followed us. He sounds grave and when I turn around to look at him he looks no less serious. I figure that for some reason he didn’t appreciate the joke. “Oh. Eh, it was a figure of speech, Sherlock.”

I feel like he is waiting for me to apologise but I don’t, not seeing why I should, given that it was meant as praise. He holds my eyes a moment and then lets it go. “Hm.”

While Sherlock sits down next to me Dom arrives and joins us, accompanied by a few other people. I hadn’t realised that everyone had been watching the scene even though it makes sense, it was always part of Sherlock’s plan. I feel like disappearing into the sofa, very much hoping that we will not be the topic of conversation for the rest of the night.

Dom looks to me first. “All right?”

I say yes, thank you, but I really don’t feel like talking to him. However he seems happy enough and shifts his attention to Sherlock. “I enjoyed watching that. Thanks for sharing.”

Although Sherlock acknowledges the comment he doesn’t elaborate, and that seems to be that. No in-depth analysis or picking up on good or bad points, none of the embarrassing stuff I was anticipating. The conversation moves on and they are soon busy discussing a hundred other things. Sherlock takes part but in a quiet way, none of his usual brash self coming through, blending in perfectly. I don’t feel like saying anything and am happy to listen in.

Suddenly the conversation is broken up by someone outside the group loudly interrupting. “Well if it isn’t Sherlock fucking Holmes.” A tall, greying and weather-worn man in leathers shouts out, coming towards our sofas. His waistcoat is covered in tassels and the sides of his leather trousers are laced up, giving him the appearance of a cowboy or a biker. Sherlock looks at the man, for the moment giving nothing away, although to me he looks suddenly wary. The man stops close to Sherlock, who says, “Patrick.”

The man scoffs, and says, “Oh, so you do remember. I’m surprised to see you alive. I thought you’d have been dead of an overdose years ago.”

The whole circle goes totally quiet. Sherlock, however, doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t.”

“No,” the man says, “I can see that.” Then he looks around the group on the sofas. “And what a nice new set of friends you have.” He gives us all a rather unpleasant smile, and says, “Good evening, all,” before walking off.

Next to me I can feel Sherlock shift as if he is bracing himself. Everyone on the sofas is looking at him and he answers their shocked looks with a calm but somewhat cautious shrug. “Everyone has a past.”

Jen is the first to break the silence. “Jesus. Did you do something to upset him?”

“I may have.”

To anyone that knows Sherlock the reply has no-go signs all over it. I certainly wouldn’t take a chance. Jen, however, isn’t so easily put off. “Tell us more.”

Sherlock looks at her a long moment, clearly weighing up whether to answer her or not. “He was, and I suspect still is, a drugs trafficker who specialises in blackmail and extortion. He chose the wrong target and lost rather a lot of money.” As an afterthought, he adds, “I’m surprised he’s out of jail.”

He says it without any of his usual smugness. I am struggling to imagine a younger Sherlock caught in that situation, wondering how he ever got to it, how he got out. Suddenly his reaction to my joke not half an hour ago makes complete sense, and now I do feel bad.

An awkward silence still hangs around the little group. Sherlock seems to have decided that’s all he is going to say on the matter, and nobody seems sure where to go from there. Once again Jen breaks the ice. “Oh for God’s sake, guys. Tell me you never did anything stupid in your life. I just think it’s a shame Sherlock can’t help us solve Lizzie’s murder. Now that would be good.”

As she says it Sherlock looks across to Dom pointedly, and Dom meets his gaze for some time before looking away. “Yeah. It would be.”

After that the conversation picks up again but Dom is no longer taking part, seemingly lost in thought, staring at the floor. Sherlock is still focused on him and it surprises me that the other man is able to ignore his steady gaze on him. I would certainly be feeling totally self-conscious by now.

Suddenly Dom gets up, giving Sherlock the tiniest indication of his head to follow. In response Sherlock nods ever so slightly, and as he gets up he taps my leg with the lightest of touches. I scramble to my feet far less elegantly than either of them, legs totally gone now, and Sherlock checks himself and comes back to give me a hand. I’m surprised. “Go with Dom, Sherlock, it’s more important. I’ll be OK.”

He smiles, even though I can tell he is tense, keen to get going. “It wouldn’t do to drop appearances quite so quickly.”

 _An act, then, like so much of what he does_ , I think. I should know better but the thought makes me surprisingly sad as we make our way to a quiet corner of the bar where Dom has stationed himself, looking a little uncomfortable.

Dom gets us some drinks, but it takes time before he finally says anything. “About Lizzie, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is just watching him, waiting for him to continue. Dom sighs. “Listen. There may be some stuff I can tell you, things that I haven’t told the police. But I don’t want to get into trouble over this. I don’t want them to know it was me.”

In response Sherlock nods. “Take us to the club, Dominic.”

Dom looks at him, looking for some reassurance, some confirmation that this is going to be OK. When Sherlock doesn’t say anything else he takes a deep breath and walks out of the club, followed closely by Sherlock and finally myself, momentarily forgotten it seems. I catch up with them at the cloakroom where I am grateful to see that Sherlock did remember to get my coat. I’m glad I haven’t become completely irrelevant yet.

The taxi ride is a short and silent one. Sherlock is tense and trying not to show it, Dom is quiet and thoughtful, and I am feeling like a third wheel. I’m of half a mind to get the taxi to take me home but my curiosity at seeing this case resolved is too big. Besides I think I have deserved to be involved by now.

When we get to the club Dom opens up and disables the alarm, then closes the door behind us. Walking inside the dark and empty building is an eerie experience. Dom doesn’t switch on the lights in the entrance hall, but makes his way straight to the double doors into the main room. In the darkness the bondage equipment dotted around the room gives the place a distinctly gothic feel, the only light coming in being that of street lamps filtering through the barred windows, making the place look spooky. I’m glad when he finally flicks a switch and a few lights come on.

He sits down on one of the bar stools, looking a bit lost. Sherlock says nothing, waiting for him to start talking, and I find a quiet place to sit down myself, glad to take some weight off my legs and vaguely wondering if I’ll ever be able to walk straight again.

Finally Dom seems to make his mind up. He takes a deep breath, looks at Sherlock and says, “The guy’s name was Mick, but for all I know that was an alias. He was American, said he had just arrived from the States, and he only visited the club a handful of times. He took an unhealthy interest in Lizzie, who didn’t like him, and told him to leave her alone. When he kept bothering her Kelvin got involved, and eventually I was forced to ban him from the club altogether. We didn’t think anything off it until she disappeared about a month later and was found back murdered.”

Sherlock says, “’Mick’ from the States is not enough to go on, Dominic. I need more if I am to help you. Would you be able to recognise him in a lineup?”

Dom shakes his head, looking at the floor. “I told you, I don’t want to be involved. The last thing I want is to go down in history as the guy running that nightclub where murderers come to pick out their victims.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, thankfully unnoticed by Dom. “Then why don’t you show us the CCTV footage?”

Dom’s head shoots up. “We don’t have CCTV. People simply wouldn’t come.”

Sherlock flashes him a little ironic smile. “Oh, come, Dominic. Three cameras, extremely well hidden. First one over the entrance as people come in, second one over at the cloaks keeping track of the bag searches, and finally number three,” he points to a corner behind us, where I can see nothing at all until I look very closely to see the smallest hint of light reflecting off a small lens, “keeping an eye on the bar. None on any of the equipment, none in the private rooms, because the cameras are there to protect staff, not customers.”

Dom has gone white. “If that is made public knowledge I might as well close the club.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t see why it should. There’s only us three here.”

Dom isn’t convinced. “Yeah, but the police…”

Sherlock cuts in, dismissively. “There is no reason to get the police involved. At least not at this point. They need never know about any of this given the correct evidence.”

Once again Dom sighs, looks away and keeps quiet for a long time. Then finally he looks up and says, “Fine. Come with me.”

He leads us behind the bar, up the stairs and into a small but tidy office. “I was looking through it the other day after some of the stuff you said…” he stops suddenly and gives Sherlock a very curious look, which Sherlock returns calmly. Dom smiles a little and shakes his head but doesn’t comment. “Anyway. It’s all here.”

He flicks on a computer and draws up a chair, Sherlock looking over his shoulder. I go and sit on the corner of a desk on the other side. Once everything has booted up Dom starts flicking through footage. “There.”

The imagery is grainy, but there is enough detail to make out a drawn face, large eyes, a thin frame. “That’s him.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

Dom shakes his head. “No, not as far as I saw. He was an easy kind of guy to pass by altogether. Brown eyes and kind of blondish hair. You wouldn’t notice him in a crowd.”

“Print it out for me.”

Dom looks up. “I can’t do that. We just said this isn’t going any further.”

Sherlock sighs. “It will go as far as my flat, Dominic. I will cross-reference it with all incoming passports and visas from America during the time that ‘Mick’ claimed he arrived, after which I will fabricate an anonymous tip-off which I will pass to the Met with the man’s full name and passport details. After which I should hope DNA evidence will do the actual hard work. There should be no need for witness statements.”

Dom looks at him, visibly impressed. “Oh. In that case.” He sends the image to the printer and then pulls up another few. The guy standing at the bar, one of the side of his face as he entered the club. “There.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock picks up the pictures and studies them a moment, then puts them in an inside pocket. “We won’t detain you any longer.”

As he turns to leave, Dom gets up and says, “Hey, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stops and looks at him, and they briefly lock eyes.

“It was all for the case, wasn’t it. All of this. You coming here for weeks, bringing Adri. You didn’t come for the clubbing.”

Sherlock weighs him up a moment, then nods. “Yes.”

Dom shakes his head again, although he doesn’t look very upset. “I must say you’re very convincing.” Then he turns to me. “And what about you, Adri? Does he pay you by the hour? Like some kind of a rent-a-sub? How does that work?”

I can’t think of anything to say to him, how to convince him that I’m not. Behind Dom Sherlock says, “Oh don’t be absurd, Dominic. You of all people should know that what we did tonight would be extremely difficult to fake. That collar is real. Adriane is who she says she is.” He is looking at me as he says it with the slightest hint of a smile, and adds, “In fact she finds it very hard to be anything else.” I’m just grateful for the backup.

“Right,” Dom says, and then to me, “Sorry.”

Sherlock turns to go again but Dominic stops him once more. “Hold on a moment. You can help me lock up after dragging me out here under false pretences.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I never lied about who I am or what I do, Dominic. All I did was fail to mention that I took an interest in the murder case.”

“Yes. Well.” Dom says, still looking unconvinced. “Anything else you have failed to mention?”

Sherlock looks at him a long second. “Nothing that concerns you directly.”

For a moment Dom looks like he is going to argue, then he rolls his eyes and says, “Come on.”

There isn’t much to do before we leave, but my guess is Dom likes the company. I certainly wouldn’t want to be on my own in this place in the dark. Before long we are back at the entrance to the club and Dom is closing the door.

“You won’t be coming back though, will you, Sherlock.”

For a moment Sherlock considers it. “It is highly unlikely.”

“Shame,” Dom says, and he sounds like he means it. “Adri seemed to like it here.”

I have to admit that I did, and that I am more upset than I would like to admit that we won’t be returning.

“Adriane is free to come here as much as she wants,” Sherlock says.

Dom gives him the oddest look, then says, “Right. I’ll let you two sort that out between yourselves.”

He shakes hands with Sherlock and walks off, leaving Sherlock and me to find a taxi in the middle of the night. It takes a while, but eventually he flags one down and we are on our way. As soon as we are off, he says, “I’m clean, in every sense of the word, in case you were wondering.”

I look at him, wondering how long he’s been stewing on that one. In the midst of everything that has gone on tonight I’d forgotten about the drugs thing. “I wasn’t worried.”

He gives me a long stare, and eventually says, “Thank you.”

The rest of the taxi drive is quiet, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts. Now that we are finished with this part of the case I’m coming down, finally able to look at what we’ve been doing the last few weeks, and how it’s affected me. The longer I think about it the more it is obvious to me that I can’t just go back to the way things were, to only the experiments, the remote chance that Sherlock might take it further, the much greater probability that he won’t. Unfortunately I’m sure he will just expect things to go back to normal but that would simply destroy me. He has opened doors that are not so easily shut, and I would be lying to myself if I pretended that it hasn’t affected me. By the time the taxi rounds the corner to my street I know what I need to do, but I am dreading it.

When the taxi stops outside my flat I find myself unable to move. Eventually, Sherlock says, “Adriane, you’re home.”

I don’t know if he is really expecting me to get out and just make my own way, but I simply can’t leave this. “Would you come with me?”

He looks guarded as he agrees, but he pays the taxi driver without further comment and escorts me to my front door. I make a complete mess of trying to open it, and in the end Sherlock gets his own keys out and opens it for me. By now I am shaking, but I’m determined to see this through.

When we get in I dash to the kitchen to make tea, thankful for something ordinary to do. Sherlock waits in the doorway of the kitchen, watching what I am doing for a while. As I carry the two mugs into the living room he says, “Finished with your displacement activity?”

I’m not going to answer that so I put the mugs down and flop on the sofa. After a moment’s hesitation Sherlock joins me, looking very wary.

There’s no point in dragging it out, so I take a deep breath and say, “What happens now, Sherlock?”

He looks at me, confused. “What I said to Dominic. I find the culprit, I pass the details to the Met, they go and speak to the Foreign Office. It should be a formality although it could take some time.”

I have to smile. It’s endearing to see him get it so completely wrong sometimes. “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant us.”

He gets it then, in a sudden flash of realisation. “Oh.” He looks at me as he rapidly, visibly readjusts his thoughts, a layer of defence slotting into place. Then, seriously, “Nothing changes, Adriane.”

I can’t help it, even though I expected the answer it nearly makes me cry. Telling myself to hold it together for five more minutes to get through this, I close my eyes and say, “You’re wrong, Sherlock. Things have changed already.”

I open my eyes again to see his reaction. He hasn’t moved, watching me, still guarded. I add, “We can’t just go back to where we were.”

He is cautious when he says, “That is all I can offer you. I told you before, Adriane, I can’t give you what you need.”

I feel like screaming at him. Just about managing to control my tone of voice I say, “But you can, Sherlock. You’ve just spent two weeks showing me in great detail that you can. And I can’t just go back pretending that that never happened and that it doesn’t matter to me. I’m sorry, but it does.” I can’t stop the tears now, but I’m trying to ignore them, trying to prove I am stronger than that.

Sherlock is stoic, not giving an inch. “But we both know that I wouldn’t, and that is my point. I can ill afford the distraction.”

There is nothing I can say to that. It is clear he is not even considering the option of negotiating and it hurts, but then one of the reasons I love him is that he is so very much himself, without compromise, and it makes my feelings at this moment too complicated so I just sit and let the tears take over for a bit. When I have calmed down a little I say, very quietly and looking at my feet, “In that case I would ask you to let me go.”

Sherlock waits for me to look back up at him before saying, gently, “Very well.” If I didn’t know him better I would have thought he sounded a little sad.

He stays silent for a long time, looking at his hands, thoughtful. Then he looks at me again, and for once his face is completely open. “It was not my intention to break…, “ He gestures vaguely to us, this thing we have together for which I don’t even have a name, “… this. I’m sorry.”

I appreciate his honesty. “I know. You were just doing a job.”

He sighs, looking a little awkward, obviously trying to do the right thing. “Well. I guess I’d better…”

“Stay, please. Just tonight.”

Now he’s surprised again. I take a ridiculous amount of pride in being hard to interpret, just this once. With a slightly confused frown he asks, “Sympathy fuck?”

I smile through the tears and shake my head. “I just want to be with you. I’m not even sure I could have sex.” When he still looks confused I add, “You have big hands.”

It elicits a small smile. “Hm. Yes.”

The way this is going we’ll still be sitting on the sofa by next morning so I get up and take his hand. “Come on.”

Sherlock follows me into the bedroom and undoes the corset for me and takes off the collar, then undresses himself while I watch him. After he finishes I go to him and run my hand over his body without thinking about it, thinking he is beautiful, and how much I am going to miss him, and he’s just watching me without saying anything. When I start crying again he draws me into a hug and we stay there for a while, the skin contact comforting, and I just want to melt into him and never let go.

Eventually he peels me off him and steers me towards the bed. “Let’s get some sleep, Adriane.”

I spend the rest of the night staring at the wall with Sherlock wrapped around me from behind, his long limbs enveloping me, providing a temporary feeling of safety. If I sleep it is in short fits while he seems dead to the world, and I might resent it if I wasn’t so grateful that he is here at all. As it is I have a long time to appreciate the feeling of him and spend forever studying his arms and hands as the morning light begins to slowly filter through the curtains.

When he wakes he rolls me over lazily, studying me for some time. Then to my surprise he leans over and kisses me, taking my face in both his hands, and I don’t know what he is doing but I return the kiss as if my life depends on it. We make love, and he is gentle in a way I didn’t know he could be, and it makes everything better and worse at the same time, and I don’t care that it still hurts. Afterwards he kisses the tears away and then says, “I’m going, Adriane.”

I watch him get dressed from the bed, unable to move or say anything, suppressing the childish urge to hug a pillow as I sit crouched against the headboard. When he is done he leaves the room and for a moment I think that’s it, he is just going to walk out the door, but he returns with his coat on, looking once more sharp and controlled, any sentiment gone now. “Goodbye, Adriane.”

I nod at him, just about managing to croak a “Goodbye, Sherlock.” Then I realise I have forgotten something and go to unclasp the chain from my neck. He shakes his head, however. “Keep it. You have earned it. Besides, as far as I am concerned the door is open.”

Then, with a final swish of his coat he turns and leaves, my front door closing on him after a second with a deafening click, leaving the flat empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Really I am.


End file.
